Welcome to the official page of Douglas B. Wimmer
Don't buy into the innumerable other sites claiming to be the one and only official website. They are lying. This one is the only real one. Sure, you may find some fan sites or other places where they've begun to worship the words from my laptop like they were new additions to sacred texts, and that's fine. However, if you'd like to get your DBW news straight from the horse's mouth, then you've arrived at the right place.
What will you find here?
You'll find short synopses and ideas for works I am... well... working on. So if you're wondering about my longer, full length writing, then this place is where you'll want to head.
You'll also stumble across stories from my past and childhood as well as random things that happen to me on a daily basis. Rather than a bio that says how awesome I am, you can read through these and find out for yourself how awesome (or unawesome) I am truly am. You'll also find short writings from either college coursework or from my own admittedly scattershot brain that may entertain, enlighten, or even cause you to laugh a bit. You'll find humor, horror, heartbreak, celebrations and interpretations of life written on these pages.
In essence, this is where you'll find out about me, my brain, and how they work or don't work well together. So poke around and see if you find something you like. If you'd like to contact me directly for a freelance request or to give me a job that makes me rich beyond my wildest dreams, then by all means contact me here.
I also offer editing services for fellow writers and independent authors. As important as it is to be able to self-edit, there comes a point when someone else has to lend an eye to your work to really work out the kinks. I can help you do that.
Jake strolled down the same street he did every night since he scored an internship at Polydor Japan. He spun a pen around between his fingers as his Converse All-Stars shuffled along the damp city streets. He smiled to himself as he ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair, pushing it back behind his ear. He couldn’t remember the last time he cut it.
In mid-thought, he spied a cat scrambling up a wooden telephone pole as if it’s life depended on it, but Jake didn’t see anything chasing the feline. Stupid cat.
Jake was a dog kind of guy through and through. Dogs were loyal. Dogs were trustworthy. Dogs didn’t leave claw marks on your face if you fell asleep or steal your breath like in that cheesy Stephen King movie. What was it? Cat’s Eye? Doesn’t matter. Stupid cats.
Dallin Baker’s 1999 Ford Focus sputtered to a stop on a dusty highway. “Dammit,” he said with a huff, pressing the brake and shoving the gearshift into park. Gwen Hammond, his girlfriend, stirred from her reclined position in the passenger seat. She wiped sleep saliva from the corner of her mouth as she looked around the desert landscape.
“What? Where are we?” she asked. “Why are we stopping? Did something happen to the car?”
Dallin grabbed the round plastic handle and lowered the driver’s side window. “I don’t know. I think it’s something with the radiator,” he said, popping open the glove box in front of her knees and rummaging for his Leatherman tool.
“It’s really hot,” Gwen said, her large bug-eye sunglasses covering her eyes.