My Journey to Writing | The Astronaut That Couldn’t Get Off the Moon
On childhood stories, music, loss, and learning to trust the work
I’ve been writing since I could hold a pencil. I’m not sure if I found writing or it found me, but either way, it never let go. My Journey to Writing and the Astronaut that Couldn’t Get off the Moon started one day, visiting my mom, she slid a ratty little book across the table.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s yours,” she said. “You wrote it in third grade.”
It was beat to hell. Taped at the binding with green duct tape, the cover wrapped in some weird fabric with a watercolor house. The title?
“The Astronaut That Couldn’t Get Off the Moon.”
I flipped through it, and BAM—my whole childhood came flooding back: the smell of Elmer’s glue, the mystery meat in the cafeteria, and Mrs. Duras with her clunky heels and unstoppable optimism.
The story? A busted satellite near the moon. NASA needs help. Naturally, they call me. I suit up, fix the satellite, then an alien named Omar hijacks my shuttle and strands me on the moon. Long story short, Omar and I become homies. My neighbor Aaron shows up in a second shuttle and rescues me. When we land back on Earth, a surprise party’s waiting.
It was ten pages of pure imagination.
And I had completely forgotten it.
Turns out, I’ve always been wired to write—stories, poems, songs, scraps on napkins, backs of cereal boxes—you name it. But for decades, I kept it all locked away. Blame it on impostor syndrome.
In junior high, I picked up a bass guitar and found my voice in music. I wrote secretly lyrics and poems, while then letting the lead singer take the spotlight while I stood in the corner, fingers on strings, mind on paper.
Then came the betrayal.
The guitar player and I showed up to band practice one day—empty basement. All the gear gone except ours. No warning. No explanation. We’d been kicked out.
We walked home in silence. Hurt turned to fire. I dusted off the old box of writings, pulled out a few lyrics, and we wrote a song called “Summertime.” That’s when it started: dirty lil’ trollops were born.
You can read all about that wild ride in my book:
Just Words: Vol:1 – The Lyrics & Shenanigans of the dirty lil’ trollops.
High school brought poetry class and a secret pen name identity: Samhain—named after the Celtic holiday and the post-Misfits band. We turned in work anonymously, and I unloaded. That class cracked something open in me. I found rhythm, voice, courage. I started to believe maybe—just maybe—my words had weight and could do something.
Through the years, that old box of writings followed me from place to place like a loyal ghost. Until one day, a psychotic, absolutely disturbed woman burned most of it. Gone. But not forgotten.
Out of the ashes came a new fire.
These aren’t just books. They’re soul excavations. They dig into the human condition, addiction, memory, longing, darkness, and survival.
My writing lives somewhere between Charles Bukowski and Jack Kerouac, with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson chaos and a hint of Jim Morrison mysticism. (I’m guessing out loud)
I built this site to house the writings—past, present, and future.
Some of it might hit you in the gut.
Some might miss. That’s okay.
If it’s not for you, pass it on to someone it might be for.
Just promise me this—if something I wrote resonates, or makes you feel less alone in this noisy world—let me know. That’s the good stuff.
New Books Released 2025:
Thanks for stopping by. Now get in there, poke around, and see what sticks.
Be well. Raise hell.
—Ran Kime
All Rans books are available at most major online bookstores and his music is online at dlt Productions.
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