Who is M G Kizzia? Here is one of the smallest memoirs on record:
I was born in ancient days, in a hospital in Washington D. C. which no longer exists. I’m an oldie, but goody whose life is characterized by every time I find something good it gets discontinued, or maybe I could have taught Murphy a thing or two.
I escaped high school in 1971 and made lots of music, appeared on stage, and wrote a couple of plays, a bucket of stories, and plenty of non-fiction over roughly 12 years. I worked to keep my head above water, including in a bank, an insurance company, and a year at Ma Bell when she got busted up into all those baby bells. I am pleased to say I avoided the actor’s curse. I never waited tables. I did, however, toy with higher education during that time.
In 1984 (very Orwellian) I got serious–an attitude I do not necessarily recommend. I graduated with a AB from Drew University and went on to graduate school at the Princeton Theological Seminary. I actually preached and pastored, and loved several congregations, but by 1996, that was enough. I never had time to write or practice my art, and worse. I never found many Christians in the church, and I am a theologically correct sort of fool who refuses to play the game or compromise on the faith. Sigh. (Take that as you will).
After that, I experienced corporate America. Having a wife and four children will do that to a man. I ran retail operations for a couple of different companies for about another 12 years. I discovered that the work was just as much 24/7 as church work, and worse. I had all the headaches, heartaches, and ulcers of an owner without any of the benefits. Forget that. I was not getting my art done, you know, the important thing, the reason I was born.
Around 2008, I took a big pay cut and started representing several companies in stores. I left work at work and went home nights and started writing my brains out. That was not easy. Things were tight for my family, though the children were about old enough to get on with their own lives. We struggled, but broke even until December 30, 2012 when I suffered a series of mini-strokes and spent 4 days in the hospital.
Funny thing about that. My life flashed before my eyes. I thought I was going to die, and I realized that the work I was made for was still undone. All those tales to be told remained untold, and the songs in my heart remained unsung. What could I do? I found my arteries clogging up and turning hard. I could no longer work the job I had been working. I could not find any work I could do in this Obama (blame Bush) economy. So I guess I am retired, like it or not; able to afford it or not.
I have a small stipend, an advance against my inheritance. And I write every day. I don’t expect to appear on stage or screen anytime soon. I don’t imagine making any of the music of my youth. But after a long and winding journey, I am back to where I started in 1971, to what I really started in Washington D. C. when I was born. I am writing, or rather, I am telling stories and tales, and a bit of non-fiction, and we will see how much I can get on paper before I die.
Let me leave you with two thoughts from my editor father, now gone to that big magazine in the sky:
1. Never let the facts stand in the way of a good story.
2. Good writers know what to put into a story. The best writers know what to leave out.
Feel free to like this new page. I would not mind. Or, you can comment, or send me a note at firstname.lastname@example.org where 42 is the answer to life the universe and everything.