Bobby Robertson is a mere piece of flotsam. He is little more than a plank of driftwood from a humbled ship. He goes about his merry way, drifting along the surface of the veritable ocean that is literature, and can scarcely imagine what wonders lie in the deep, dark depths. He is driftwood, but he hopes he can one day be so incapable of floatation that he begins to sink and drift and one day be immortalized on some deep-sea precipice overlooking some dark ocean chasm, yet maintaining a view of the twisting, dancing rays of the sun through the surface far above; often being passed by strange, wonderful, terrifying, beautiful creatures of the blue abyss, and perhaps could be so lucky as to become so natural a part of his spot in the ocean that should any diver or denizen swim by, they would not doubt for a moment that he belonged on his perch in the sea of stories.
But then one might more accurately describe Bobby as a young man who has lived in the same house in the Salt Lake valley all eighteen years of his life. You might say he was born and raised in a place of art, his father being a painter and his mother being a linguist and student of humanities, and both being occupied as teachers in these, their beloved fields of study and knowledge. You could possibly best describe him as someone who learned to read because he would not be bested by a pre-school classmate. You wouldn’t be wrong in calling him a boy who learned the intricacies of complex dialogue combined with wit from the great Bill Watterson. No one would accuse you of lying if you said he had been a writer ever since the days of his youth, and has never once lost the dream. Verily, you would be contentedly correct if you were to say that he is quite simply a human being who really, really likes books.
But that’s boring, and until he can think of a more fitting symbol, he would prefer you simply describe him as a piece of sinking flotsam.
In all seriousness, though, Bobby is glad to be here to humbly write for this most esteemed of audiences. He is eternally thankful to each and every respectable individual who takes time out of their busy lives to flatter him by spending the time it takes to read his stories. His philosophy on where inspiration can be, and is, found is from within Morpheus’ noble realm, The Dreaming. (If you don’t know what he’s talking about, apologize to yourself and immediately go read Neil Gaiman’s ‘The Sandman’. Go, that is, unless you are a young and innocent soul. In that case, wait until you’re older, and then go read Neil Gaiman’s ‘The Sandman’.)
He wishes you luck on your journey into the dark and mysterious depths.