first, there was franklin w. dixon... or was there? we'll refer to him as such, though the pseudonym refers to stratemeyer's minions. in any case, the plots were familiar and the verbage less keen than the characters portrayed. and yet, it was the beginning; the effort which would generate a thirst for more.

next was lewis, followed quickly by doyle, stevenson, poe, emerson and friends. i was enamored with the masters of ink, the linguistic painters of a time since passed. perhaps some of the reasons for which i never pursued writing stem from my overwhelming adulation of these. the looming watermark would have eternally haunted me.

if any lyrical manner has ever impressed me, it was poe's. such command, such arrogant wordsmithery. where else could i have learned the word ratiocination? the odd coincidence is that it is a family name of sorts. you see, i bear the name of my father, who bears the name of his father; but *his* father, my great-grandfather, bore the name edgar poe. i must insist now that the reader avoid jumping to the logical conclusion; i am not the great-grandson of edgar allen poe. still, his name was edgar, and his middle name was poe. a bit of an oddity, don't you think?

he is no more poe than i am my father, or grandfather; they and we simply share a moniker. but it is interesting still, and not the only disposition which i share with my past.