Craig writes. In spite of the moods he gets in sometimes when he thinks he should just give it up because the chances of him making it as a writer are slim to none, he perseveres. He reads his writing and, though he thinks it shows promise, it never quite reaches his standards, though the greedy bastard sends it out for publication anyway, hopeful to get his hands on enough money to afford a dinner at Burger King. In spite of his hobby's downfalls, he's fully prepared to waste a decent portion of his life sitting in front of a computer, typing up stories, half of which he might earn a decent chunk of change for, and fewer even still that some people might one day read. Because, in his mind, the stories need to be put down. They need to be read. With every sent e-mail, he knows the chances are high that the editor they're being sent to won't like the story, won't see it the way he sees it, won't see what it accomplishes when he tries to make it so obvious. Every once in a while, though, an editor likes it. They publish it. And over time, the e-mails containing rejection letters dwindle while the acceptances grow ever higher. And, truthfully, that's all a writer gives a shit about at the end of the day; validation for the stories that are built inside their very souls.
He's been published by Creepy Campfire Quarterly, Sanitarium Magazine, Under The Bed Magazine, and The Literary Hatchet. With his free time, he reads, watches rap battle, and falls prey to the newest series updated on Netflix.
TL;DR version:
I'm Craig. I write. Sup?
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