YB: Me

Let me tell you the story of me, YB.
Awesome initials, of course, thank you, mother.
I was raised in a French corner of Canada, not too far from salt water that would eventually join the Atlantic ocean. Close enough for moderate temps and inspiring storms, far enough that it took a drive to actually taste salty air.
But that's ancient history.
Since then I have lived in three time zones. There were many fine years spent as close to the Pacific -much closer, ow that I think about it - as I had been to the Atlantic.
And time in cities small and large on the shores of a couple different Great Lakes.
All those moves and travels to different cities, provinces, states and bodies of water happened for reasons of education, employment, love. My own and for the fulfillment of others I was living with.
Makes for a fragmented life, history, resume.
But one constant has been my active fantasy imagination. So after decades of telling myself these stories, all the fantasies confined to my own thoughts and dreams, I have started to write them down. Give voice to the characters I have carried from coast to coast and back.
Maybe next time, instead of introducing myself, I will introduce some of them.

Dipping my toe in

If I really want to be a writer, I should have a blog.
So say well-intentioned friends.
Is there merit to their unsolicited advice?
We shall see.
We shall see if this pseudo-Luddite can speak the contemporary techno-lingo well enough to pull this off.
A toe dip more than a plunge.
And seek to answer the question: does a 21st century writer require a blogosphere presence?
Thoughts?