My name is Erin O'Brien and I am a writer.
I didn't start out that way. I lived through a swirl of confusion, trying to fit my idiotic writer self into a box called Perfect Life, which included the mandatory Successful Career of electrical engineering.
Then in 1994 my brother, the little known author of a book called "Leaving Las Vegas" and profoundly alcoholic John O'Brien, put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. When I emerged from the thick black muck of grief, it occurred to me that, whether I had ten days or ten decades left, life is short. Regarding that old cliche about death and taxes, they aren't kidding about the death part. I was 29.
So I kicked corporate life, put my digits on the keys and the seat of my pants in the seat of the chair.
I am now 40 and have just achieved the humble goal of publishing my first novel. It was hard. That's crying-and-drinking-and-writing -and-rewriting-and-submitting-and-getting rejected-and-breathing hard, not just regular hard. And I did it all again and again and again. But I am here now, undeniably alive.
Kids, don't try this at home.