Thank you

It brings me great joy to share my writings with you. Thank you for spending time on my website.


Stream my radio show, “The Musical Hybrid,” airing live on Thursdays, 7-9pm on KSYM 90.1 FM, San Antonio College Radio. Archived shows are available.

Who I Am and Why I’m Here

Written in


As if I have to remind myself.

I don’t know who I am. Howbeit, I am a writer. I know that about myself. I have things to write with and things to write on, and I use them daily.

See that picture above? It’s a stack of index cards I have written on for the past two weeks. Each one has ideas and notes. The top card, WRITE, was a reminder I left for myself. It’s a silly reminder, because I never need to be reminded to write. The following card said TAXES, and I still haven’t finished filing.

The story of how I started writing is the same story of how I started reading. I was young and gifted. I walked on my toes, I didn’t talk, and I asked people, “Are you happy or sad?” To which they would reply, “I’m mad!”

The first book I read was called The Popples. It was a pop up book. I think I was 3 or 4 years old when I read it out loud to myself. Words looked so different then. The typesets emoted strange feelings and implicit sounds.

I started writing a couple years after I started reading. The first piece I wrote was a horror story about an evil person who cut the earth in half with a gigantic chainsaw — it was the scariest thing I could think of. The second piece I wrote was a one page essay on the nature of arguments during recess — and (go figure) I got a B.A. in communication and a minor in psychology.

I was ten when I started playing around with a typewriter. I wrote a story about a submarine. The story was full of plot holes, but I had an out of body experience while typing it. I ran to the kitchen to yell at my mom, “I just floated!” She didn’t turn away from the dishes as she replied, “That’s good, Dominic.” I ran back to the typewriter and ripped my submarine story out of the roller — a quintessential typing motion that makes a typist cringe. Then, I loaded another paper where I wrote about my out of body experience until the ribbon ran out. The ribbon was never replaced.

After, I made a journal for myself. I found a small five ring planner, I cut construction paper to size one sheet at a time, and then I manually hole punched each sheet. I wrote in there for about a year.

Since then, I have filled all sorts of media with writing, and they collect dust and silverfish. I’ve happily tossed and sadly lost more writing than the average person writes in their lifetime; but I write more than I can go back and read, and all of my favorite things I’ve written I’ve never had to reread to remember.

People tell me they like my writing. I like my writing too. People ask why I don’t publish it. I ask why I don’t publish it too.

This is why I am here. I have to share. I have to write out loud. I have a new voice to do it. I have new things to write with and new things to write on. It’s time to get rid of the little index cards. Right?


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