David Bush

I suppose, looking back, that I enjoyed a typical boyish childhood during every daylight minute…sports, camping, fishing, pulling pigtails of yucky girls, etc. When my exhausted head hit the pillow each night, a transformation occurred similar to Superman ripping open his crisp button-up shirt, or Zorro donning his mask as I reached for the book on my nightstand.

As far back as I can remember I have loved to read. Books brought energy into my young life. Sluggish synapses that failed to function during mind-numbing chores such as folding clothes or washing dishes would spark and pop when I dove into a paperback.

My undeveloped brain marveled at mysteries from Encyclopedia Brown, Alvin Fernald, and The Three Investigators. During energetic neighborhood football games, my actions attempted to mirror those of pigskin heroes, namely Pittsburgh Steelers legends Terry Bradshaw, “Mean” Joe Greene, Franco Harris, and Rocky Bleier, all of whom I had scrutinized in their autobiographies.

I don’t remember the exact age when my parents declared (with a degree of surprise and shock) that I had matured enough to engage in The Hardy Boys and Louis L’Amour novels. From that moment my world exploded in a thousand imaginary directions.

Perhaps my first deep respect for good writing sprouted in a creative writing class during my freshman year at Northwest College in Powell, Wyoming. I recall struggling over description and setting, languishing over the perfect words to paint the picture rattling around in my head. How in the world do these masterful authors teleport readers into scenes they can hear, feel and taste? I remember my professor clearing his throat at the front of the class and reading a portion of what he called ‘excellent writing’…from my short story. A strange, exciting feeling.

That moment faded as college became busier and my career in mechanical engineering launched. Thirteen years later, my company announced it was shutting down and moving out of state. My wife and I decided to stay put. If you’ve never experienced it, I can vouch that after being active in the workforce, unwanted unemployment stinks. In between applying for jobs, I grasped at anything to drag me out of boredom. Those despised childhood tasks such as dish washing? Bring ‘em.

And then an idea popped into my head—I’ll write a book!

I’ve long forgotten what inspired the topic of that first book: a coming-of-age adventure novel starring me as the main character, with high school and college friends as support cast. I hid in the basement, furious fingers clacking at the keyboard, wishing I had paid more attention in that freshman writing class. Action, mystery, spies, death, romance…oh, I wove them all into a horrible, point-of-view-shifting, sloppy, third-grade-grammar nightmare that would have caused an editor to develop an eye twitch.

I decided to boldly share this astonishing creation with everyone I could think of…as an anonymous author, creating a secret Yahoo email account using my character’s name from the book. Then I emailed it to everyone I knew, one chapter per week.

The responses ranged from, “Hey, this is really good. Who are you?” to, “Please do not ever email me again.” Over the next few years the writing bug continued to plague me. I hammered out another half a dozen books, each one bringing a strong sense of creative satisfaction, regardless of the lack of polish and skill.

I attended my first writers’ conference, showing up as a tight bundle of nerves, but overjoyed to bump into a college friend whose mom was also writing. This friend—out of respect for his privacy I shall simply call him Filthy Swine—doubled over laughing to the point of passing out when I told him I wanted to be an author.

And then my career took off again. As I climbed the corporate engineering ladder and engaged with a wife and three growing boys, my time for writing vanished. Sadly, although I didn’t realize it at the time, my reading time also diminished.

After twenty years of the rat race, my wife and I made a lifestyle decision. I stepped down from project management to take positions as a contract engineer and a technical writer. The exposure to technical writing rekindled my author desires, and I began serious reflection over the topics of reading good books, appreciation of the writing craft, and a renewed feeling of gratitude. Long ago, those authors that swirled my imagination into a variety of worlds had also implanted a tiny seed that grew into a desire to pass that experience on to other readers.

So I began writing again and self-publishing, currently in the genres of mystery and futuristic Christian thrillers, while also toying around with science fiction and humorous outdoor short stories.

My brother, Dan, has been my biggest partner along the way, and I’m grateful for his support. As a side note, Daniel C. Bush (Dan) has also launched his own teen adventure series inspired by his daughters, as well as his true story of adopting children from overseas.

Staying loyal to my favorite genres growing up, my books are filled with action, a decent corpse count, mystery, and a romantic thread. Speaking of romance…in a discussion with my daughters-in-law, they derided me, claiming that I don’t know how to write romance at all.

Stay tuned for possibly the first ever romance novel written out of pure spite.

I have a passion to pass on the joy of reading to other readers. I still reflect on those early years of reading and grin with excitement at the opportunity to pay that joy forward to others. If my books are not your preferred genre, it’s okay. “Life is full of choices and opinions. Some people like artichokes.” (Chiliastic readers will understand)

Thanks to everyone who has walked with me on this journey.