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author
S.M. Dougan
More than a half century ago the winter solstice delivered me to this world. It was a Wednesday. A bleak and foul day – cold and snowing; a day custom tailored for the arrival of such a child as me...view moreMore than a half century ago the winter solstice delivered me to this world. It was a Wednesday. A bleak and foul day – cold and snowing; a day custom tailored for the arrival of such a child as me. Created in Ireland, I made the journey across the Atlantic to Canada and then on to the city of my birth.
Edmonton in winter can be a cruel place for the unprepared; I was up to the task. I came into the world screaming like a warrior on his way to battle, four days too early for sainthood; an injustice I have spent my life compensating for.
I was the first born of three sons. The pressure of the responsibilities associated with such rank wore heavy on me, but I met every challenge with honor. One of my few refuges was the quiet times I spent alone inside my own head. I allowed my imagination free rein to create worlds that didn’t exist. I created stories that amused and entertained me. They gave me a host of imaginary friends that amazed and challenged me.
The sources for my stories is varied. Some are interpretations of tales shared with me by trusted shaman. Others were concocted from scattered and somewhat unreliable memories of parties I attended. Still others are adaptations of creations I shared with pretty young prospects in my dating days. Some are from the memories of my youth. Some I have no idea where they came from – perhaps fragmented memories of nightmares or dreams.
Those that know me will deny the validity of some of these recollections. I am a writer of fiction, and these are the events as my mind has preserved them. All fiction is garnished with traces of truth. In all cases, the focus of my writing is story. I believe fiction is for the heart and imagination. The sole purpose is entertainment; an escape for the senses.
I have studied a variety of seemingly diverse topics throughout my life; feeding an also insatiable desire to learn, and I have been employed in myriad occupations. I have been an avid motorcyclist, skydiver, recreational pilot, philosopher, magician, psychiatrist, saxophonist, clarinettist, and a computer slave. I am a father, step-father, husband, ATM, and master of domineering lower forms.
I enjoy cold beer on a hot day, laughter with friends, short walks, children laughing and playing, beautiful music, beautiful women, moonlit nights, rolling breakers, and writing. I enjoy and cherish my siblings, parents, family, friends, memories, and myself.
My writing started for my own amusement and sanity. It allowed me imaginary friends without looking too weird. Taking work of mine, publishing it, and sharing with the world is a scary proposition. A written work, even one of fiction, allows a certain insight into the mind of its author.
Welcome to my mind – I hope you brought a flashlight.view less