I am an opinionated Son of a Bitch, I’m told. It shows in my fiction, and it showed in particular in the words I penned as Editor of "The Tome," my long defunct personal money-dump. Other than the reviews I once wrote for Deathrealm Magazine under the too-hard-to-explain pseudonym Herb Greenhouse, those Editorials for The Tome earned me the most positive, and negative reactions of anything I’ve written. That column, well, hell, this column, was/is good for my soul. It is a point of expression that reaches more than one set of ears. It is a chance to foist off my opinions on the unwary. It is a chance to stir the pot from a safe distance.

It is with great satisfaction I now present what is the first of what I hope will be many installments of "From the Shadeaux." Brett may come to hate himself for this decision, but I will not. I like my opinions. I believe in them. I spout them without thought to rhyme or reason, quite often to blink, later on, stare at it and laugh, thinking Oh SHIT what was I thinking. That is the fun of it. It is also a symptom of turning things in near the deadline, another fault of mine.

The only problem is, after so many years, so many changes in horror, and writing, and the world in general, where will I start? I talked it over with my editor (who suques) and he was no help. "Write whatever you want, dude." (Great stuff, that) It was then that I realized that this was no different than anything else I’ve written, and that there was a logical starting point to bring this column to useful life. I must start at the beginning. A short history of horror and myself and how they have intertwined. Hopefully, along the way, a few useful tidbits will arise.

I have always called myself a writer. I won a poetry contest in High School (first and second, if you count the poem I sold to a friend), and wrote a couple of really bad horror stories. These sat in a folder in my locker the first couple of years I was in the Navy. I was, I assured everyone, a writer. I just had to "find" myself before I did anything with it. In those days, I was also hampered by the now-seemingly-insane notion that I should be a minister. More on that, as this continues.

The United States Navy is many things. Though it seems in most cases to fall short, it can truly provide an opportunity to have an adventure rather than just a job. Get this. You have left home, but you have not. You have left your parents, but not really. You can get in almost ANY sort of trouble, and there is someone there to dig you out of it. You can spend all the money, and still you can eat and sleep comfortably, relatively speaking, with the assurance you won’t lose your job, and will still get paid. You can spend your time on any sort of mind-numbing, mind expanding experience available to man. You can get a college degree, you can start putting aside a third of your paycheck every payday, invest wisely, doing the same with re-enlistment bonuses, and be a fucking MILLIONAIRE after ten years. The possibilities are endless, were endless. I can’t say I always chose wisely, but I can say I would trade very few of those memories for any others.

I could have left home and attended University, gotten my degree, even become the Minister I never would have remained. I did none of that. I sailed to the Philippines. I visited Hong Kong and Singapore, and Africa. I was a street musician In San Francisco, and in San Diego. I got lost in a stairway in Hawaii – don’t even ASK – and ended up sleeping under a Toyota Tank. I married an exotic dancer who grew up to be a biologist. I was a counselor for religious retreats and was initiated into a bike club in Spain. I have done so many things, seen so many people, known cultures and lands and secrets that have shaped me into ...well, this. This writer. This man with the gift given him by readers....that his words aren’t worthless. That what he believed to be a talent, at whatever level, is.

All of that is the poster-child story for "It's not just a job, it's an adventure." The Navy would have you believe that it has to do with a college education. They would tell you about sophisticated equipment and unmatched training. They will fill you full of crap about teamwork and the safety of the nation. The Navy is a place where you have a unique freedom to shape your own life. You get an extended childhood and the opportunity to grow up at your own pace, or not at all. You meet a thousand personalities in the span of a few years and interact with them as you wish, a little, a lot, or not at all. You see the worlds other people inhabit, and again, the choices. See them all from a barstool? Take bus-tours and read brochures? Wander the streets and meet those who live there, spending time and yourself in the effort? All possible. All things I’ve experienced.

"Where is this crazy sailor boy going with this?" you ask. Only here. I owe the life that has become the backdrop of experience for my writing, in large part, to the decision to escape an abusive step-father and a hick-town Illinois upbringing and join the Navy. Most of what I’ve written in the last ten or twelve years was either typed, conceived, or revised on board a Navy ship, edited, revised, and enjoyed by a wide variety of Uncle Sam’s finest before any other eyes scanned the words. Hell, (laughing now) the first installment of The Tome, and "From the Shadeaux" ever printed was printed late at night, using Navy paper, Navy copy-machines (Xerox 1090 marathon copiers) collated by hand and painfully stapled with a regular old desk stapler (many issues getting the added bonus of editor blood in the process).

Not that I’m advocating a military career to anyone. I pretty much hated as much about it as I liked, or more, particularly near the end of my career. What I wanted to do in this first column was to begin to build an understanding of who I am, and where I am coming from, before launching into editorial comment and scathing review. I guess I want myself in perspective so when I say something, readers will have some way to gauge if they should listen to me or not.

You can expect comments in the future on such diverse topics as the state of our government, the Internet, writing, horror, anthologies and novels, publishing, publishers, and magazines. Pig boy, the editor-man, said I could rant, and rant I shall....but for now?

Tip a pint to the boys in Navy Blue, sailing all over the world, drinking exotic beer and chasing exotic women. Spend a moment thinking about men who have given up long chunks of their lives, lost families and health, spent weeks without a decent meal or a word from anyone who gave a damn about anything – all in the name of freedom. Sure, that freedom was their own, but they were willing to buy it by helping to preserve yours.

From the Shadeaux,

David Niall Wilson