Wayne B.

I'm a refugee from the ABNA wars. I seek a home, a bit of solace, some commiseration with my fellow expatriots. And I seek eyes with understanding, eyes that can see my work for what it is and provide me with some feedback.

I mean, this whole experience troubles me. I entered figuring my book was good enough to publish. I still feel that way. Or am I deluded? I've read some semi-finalist excerpts written by others. They are good, but mine measures up. Mine is as good or better. So what happened?

I can't be the exception. There have to be other writers whose work is as good but did not become one of the blessed thousand. I confess -- I am a LURKER. I hate that term; it has a sinister meaning to me. I haven't contributed because, to be honest, my fellow entrants come across as polished and clever and downright intimidating. They have a gift for words. Their "voices" emerged as memorable to my mind.

I'm a reclusive fellow by nature, a bit guarded and awkward in social situations, but I have come to realize I need to share my writing. If it sucks, so be it. I need to find this out. But if I can write I want to find my audience. So I'll take a risk here ( I know, I'm being overly dramatic) and present to the world through this website an excerpt from my novel, the one Amazon rejected. I do this in the hope I can open a few dialogues with fellow writers.

But I have to provide a warning. I come from a working class background. It's often a tired, frustrated and bitter world. A brutal world. So my writing tends to reflect this, particularly the language. I don't want to offend anybody.