I am pathetic. A beautiful woman can reduce me to a chicken in no time flat. I can’t think straight, I can’t talk right, and I forget what I was about to say. And I don’t know how to break that cycle.
I know. I am pathetic. I can’t even bring myself to say “would you like to hang out sometime?” to a woman I don’t even know. Yes, I would love to. She is beautiful.
I know, I am a typical man. Always looking at the ladies. But I am, after all, practically single. Well, twice divorced. still. I should be less of a stick in the mud. I should be more self-confident.
But I’m not. I am nothing like my characters. I can’t bring myself to be the lady killers I write about. I am socially awkward.
I will admit to being the hopeless romantic I make my characters into, but that is all the closer I get to being like Matt or any other character I create. Except in some of the insecurities. I admit it, I am insecure. About many things.
It is part of the crap I am trying to overcome. My shyness. My inner turmoil. My self-consciousness.
Other character traits I may have that I have given my characters are: generosity, kindness, gentleness, a lack of tolerance for violent or hateful people, sarcasm, depression, self destructive tendencies when left to their own devices, loving, caring, and talented. I am both an author and a singer. I am also a visual artist.