Stuart Welch had a difficult childhood, raised in a home that was filled with the legal drugged depression of a mother woman that had tasted the high life of the Grand Ole Opry and Hank Williams and a high-temperature physicist father that wanted to be a writer above all else and to set the vials and dials behind him. They both encouraged Stuart to be a writer when he was young, but from different positions, but for difference reasons, neither of which led him to today.
Hard as it was, he resurfaced 50 years after the urge first struck him and emerged a writer. He had spent over a year travelling through Europe, dragging a leather trench coat, a beret, and a Smith-Corona because he knew that he had a story to tell so many years ago. Then the hold button on life was pressed. During those 50 years, he finished college, raised three wonderful and different-spirited children, and kept a job and a home and a wife of 28 years. He has returned to work, teach, and ramble lost through Europe many times since the ’70s.
A few years back the air was knocked from him in the form of a killer stroke that wiped half his brain. He began to find the road back to the telling of stories. He felt a resurgence to tell his visions. His card is printed with:
Writer, Poet, Raconteur.
Anyone who spends any time around him knows that he talks too long, writes too much, and sees things in a different way than most around him do or can or will.
It is hard to tell a tale sometimes through his eyes, thoughts from his brain, and words from his fingers. What makes complete sense to him sometimes is even too abstract or disjointed for him. He words words to tell a story. He works the sounds, the pace, the images that he creates out of the words he carefully chose to tell his tale. He has completed a book that he hopes to let go of this year. He has completed two screenplays that he was asked to write, and he updates a fiction blog whenever he has a few words to share at http://urbans-blog.blogspot.com.
Sometimes poetry comes easily; sometimes it is hard to remember his wife’s name. He advises the reader to never forget their wife’s name. It does not lead to inspiration.
An Intersect of Authors and Art