Steve Robison

I love writing. Writing excites me, moves me, fulfills me. It’s my passion and my purpose.

If you love reading, I hope you’ll find something worthy here. As Ben Franklin said in Poor Richard’s Almanac:

“If you would not be forgotten
As soon as you are dead and rotten
Either write things worth reading
Or do things worth the writing.”

I write because I love writing. And I write so people might cry at my funeral.


P.S. If you love my writing, please consider buying one or more of my books, writing a review, and reaching out and letting me know. Thanks a million.

Steve Robison on Amazon.com »

Insurrection Reflected

Type: Fiction

September 26, 2016 3:02 pm EDT

And he looked o’er the broad sea and to the curved horizon beyond, and sought peace, but found naught. And he drank from the deepest fount, from the waters cooled of the depths of time, and sought peace, but found naught. And... Read More »

The Baker

Type: Fiction

September 26, 2016 2:34 pm EDT

But my fate was chosen before I grew wise, and my fate was to cook, to heat, and to give sustenance to the many. The pain I avoided a great many times, with prudence and alertness, I kept my fingers from the fire, but not every time, alas, so I knew the pain of perfect heat. What choice did I have but to choose to numb the pain... Read More »

Wake, Today, Wake

Type: Blog Post

September 14, 2016 5:27 am EDT

There is not a single atom in you that is not perfect, not the smallest impulse of subatomic energy flowing divinely through your true essence.

You are. Think about that. You. Are.

You are. You exist. You are both connected to the Divine Flowing Glory of Existence and you are utterly and wonderfully unique.

Every breath, every beat of your choice, every thought of your heart, every glimmering star-shine twinkle of your fantastic imagination—each and every one—is the result of a perfect choice. Hence: destiny, fate.

You are your creation, destined to... Read More »

Hope's Survival: Art in the AM

Type: Fiction

September 7, 2016 12:36 pm EDT

You told me there was more, outside the small window in the bare wood door, more to see, to know, to feel, to explore. I was a superhero, in your eyes, in my multicolored dreams and multifaceted yearnings. Outside our small, cold, cramped home, there was more.

I don’t know, even now, why I believed you, but I did. I believed that I was bigger than our small life. I believed that one day I’d soar, find my way, dream, build, live, explore. I believed insanely in the veracity of a life beyond our worn walls.

It’s not that you were perfect—I knew that even then. You had your share of invited persecutions, of self-sabotaging delusions, of days, weeks, months of malaise,... Read More »