We caught up with the brilliant and insightful Michael Csortos a few weeks ago and have shared our conversation below.

Michael, thanks for taking the time to share your stories with us today Alright – so having the idea is one thing, but going from idea to execution is where countless people drop the ball. Can you talk to us about your journey from idea to execution?

There was a nudge. Not a big one, but big enough to get things going. As a writer, a wordsmith of short fiction and novels, the idea of becoming published and having others read and appreciate my work was a dream, and an elusive one at best. Basically, I wasn’t sure how to get the job done. I had been writing short fiction and occasionally would submit a manuscript or two every once in a while for consideration for publication with various periodicals and magazines. Often my manuscripts didn’t meet the stipulated guidelines, such as story length, the types of genera, the setting or numerous other criteria. Either because of laziness or my general need to be stubborn I wouldn’t make the required changes that possibly could have enhanced the chances of being published. Plus, it could be up to a year or more before hearing back if a particular story was up for consideration for publication. I figured I could be dead and buried before something I had written saw the light of day. In addition, the market for short fiction was dwindling down to almost nothing. So, the stories I had written over the years, a hobby some might say, were stashed in a file cabinet in the basement. I would pull one or two out every so often and give them a read over.
But it was the realization, the nudge, knowing when rotting in my grave, the stories I had written would probably be tossed away into the trash. Just one more cabinet of clutter needing to be cleaned out. My wife didn’t read my stories when I was alive. My children didn’t, nor any of my friends. What made me think they would when I was gone, keeping them safe and cherished, a remembrance. Do my stories have value? I like to think so. I write not as a hobby, a pastime. I write because I have too. There is no choice.
But that’s a lie.
There is always a choice. For the longest time I ignored the nagging itch to sit down and get serious about my writing. I put it off as if it were a stone in my shoe, always there, but easily ignored when traipsing from here to there. Life is like that, placing value on the wrong things. The nudge was when I came to grips with the understanding that when I was dead my stories would no longer have any value since I was the only one that cared for them. I decided to do something about it.
Two things happened.
The stories I had written over the years were of little value to others because of the format. They were mere manuscripts printed on regular copy paper and clipped together. Over sixty short stories were stashed in the file cabinet, a nuisance at best. I knew I had to change the way they were presented to the reader. I decided to publish them in a book, a format that is less likely to be tossed in the trash, and with any luck would be placed on a bookshelf and possibly picked up and read. That’s when I became a self-published author and heeded the call to pursue my craft without fear.

As always, we appreciate you sharing your insights and we’ve got a few more questions for you, but before we get to all of that can you take a minute to introduce yourself and give our readers some of your back background and context?

What is it that I do? How best to describe the nature of my work, my craft? Yes, I am a writer. A fiction writer to be precise. I make up stories and produce fictious characters and settings and scenarios that mimic the world we live in, and more importantly worlds best left alone. I am a writer of the macabre and the supernatural. Sometimes horror, sometimes not, but always with the human condition at the heart of the story.
I write under the name M. A. Csortos. Is it my actual name? Yes, but you can call me Mike. But don’t call me Fred. I never really liked the guy. So how did I get into the game of writing? A good question I usually have difficulty answering because when I open my mouth I sound like a complete moron. It’s hard to answer. Writing is just something I do and have done since I was a kid. Does that make sense? Probably not. And it’s even worse when someone asks me what my latest book is about. I stumble and blabber on and on about nothing, at least it feels that way. So where should I begin?
I publish my own books. I have eight novels and two short story anthologies. And yes, I am currently working on a new novel. Don’t ask how it’s going because I might lie and say it’s going just great, no worries, no worries. No really, it’s taking me on a ride. And unfortunately, I feel it’s going to be a long one. But that’s okay. That’s the nature of the beast. Writing in general is a lonely and self-conflagration endeavor. And a novel just as horrendous. But did I say enjoyable? Because it is in its own way. Don’t get me wrong. I complain, but I love it. Writing a book, a novel, or any book I suppose, is like being buried alive for six to ten months with only the thoughts in your head. But you’re not alone. No sir, by no means are you alone. The story is there with you, nagging and prodding, shoving you from behind. And if you have the guts you stay with it. Because when its finished you are the story, and the story is you. It’s almost like the birthing of a child (Yuck). And don’t get me started on the revisioning process, the changing this and the rearranging that. Because it’s painful and terrible but needed. Trust me I know. But I do it because its required. Every book beckons for it to be done. That’s the other two or three months required to make the book ready for publishing.
I am an indie writer. I am my own publisher, and I do it all. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Every book I write is mine from cover to cover. If it stinks, it’s me. If it’s great, it’s me. I take full responsibility when a reader falls in love with a character I created. Yes, it’s a big fat kiss on the cheek.

Is there something you think non-creatives will struggle to understand about your journey as a creative?

One time at a social gathering the discussion revolved around careers and choices people make. The topic of money was naturally brought up. Some argued the benefits and the financial reward of a career choice the determining factor. Others stressed the value of the work, the personal satisfaction. Yet, others stated social value was important, the effect on others and the benefit thereof. It wasn’t clarified if they meant a negative or a positive effect. I assumed the latter and kept my mouth shut. Listening to the various opinions and side comments I noticed there wasn’t any reference to the individual and the type of work he or she might be suited for. It was always the job or the type of work or industry, and the amount of education needed to qualify for the position, never what the person was compelled to do. Or the gut feeling.
I am a writer of fiction, a novelist, a short story writer, but not in the beginning, at least not full time. Writing was something I did on the side during the evenings and weekends. I didn’t make money at it and never thought I would. Yet, I kept at it because not doing so wouldn’t feel right. And that’s the crutch of the whole thing; you have to follow the nagging twitch deep inside, knowing you’re on the right track. I wrote because I felt I needed to. And not surprisingly as a teacher, the feeling in my gut guided me into the classroom. I taught thirty-four years and never once felt cheated for doing so. As a published author the twitch is just as strong. Follow your heart and listen to the rumblings deep inside. You might be surprised what they’re trying to tell you. It’s always important to look inward before exploring what the world has to offer. You might be surprised what you find.

Can you share a story from your journey that illustrates your resilience?

I have an older brother who has a full head of hair and a dimple that screams for attention. When he was younger and riding around town in his souped-up chevy, there was usually one or two girls sitting next to him in the front seat, always pretty and always laughing. He was the darlin’ of the neighborhood and almost everywhere he went. And yes, as his younger brother, I looked up to him, and I suppose was even a little jealous. I could never be that cool. But as the years flipped past us, and we each went our own ways, we would sometimes get together and talk and discover something new about each other.
My brother was successful working in the trades. He started as a laborer for a construction company and eventually became a Master Tradesman and a consultant for a major oil company. Over the years he put his time in and did well financially. He owned several homes and raised a family. When talking with him one evening he told me something that surprised me. He said he had no complaints about his career choice except for one: He did it for the money.
I wasn’t shocked. Of course he did it for the money. That was the whole purpose for having a job. Pay the bills and maybe save a little here and there. But then he said something else. He told me he was jealous of me, of my career choice. He knew I loved being a teacher, working with kids and coming home with chalk dust on my pants. He also knew I wasn’t doing it for a paycheck. He wished his priorities had been different: Following his heart instead of the almighty dollar. Even to this day he tells me he’s still looking for that one thing, that special something that will make his heart flutter with delight. And every time I begin writing mine feels like it’s ready to take off.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://macsortos.com
• Facebook: M. A. Csortos
• Other: email: [email protected]