Pauly Hart: Founding Author

In 1994, Pauly Hart began his adult writing journey in St. Petersburg, Russia. Part of a youthful drama production, he began to explore his emotions and feelings through the written word. This was a paradigm shift for him. Up until that time, he had stifled his emotions, placing them away into small boxes inside of his heart. One by one, they were opened up. Now, over twenty years later, he's realized certain things about life.

He is unique. His vision is his. He was created to be Pauly Hart and no one else, so he'd best get about being the best Pauly that he can be. His voice has a story to tell. The strange and mind-bending life that he had lived thus far could only be the beginning of a lifetime of parables, silliness, wisdom, and other bric a brac. He needed to write. Not only to soothe the untamed beast lurking within his mind, but, as Walt Whitman said once: "I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world." - That was the reason that he continued writing.

But he never took it as a life choice. It was something that just was. There wasn't any reason to it, there wasn't any realization that smacked him in the face unbidden with the dream of becoming a "writer" - no it was at the behest of his soul that his hand took to the pen and keyboard. That change would happen in 2010.

"Artists never make any money. Be a businessman." His mother had told him. The power of those words pushed him into being a businessman, and he succeeded, in his fashion. Owning a small magazine, music promotion business, a bar, and a coffeeshop were the largest of his endeavors. Also, having gone to seminary, he also pastored at two churches.

He kept getting into trouble for being a maverick and a renegade. It frightened the old ladies at the first church he pastored. They had a meeting about him. Sure, his programs were an overnight success, but were they "permitted?" Alas, no. And so a steering committee was formed to "help" him in his efforts. By the time all was said and done, Pauly had moved states and found work elsewhere. No one has patience for renegades these days, it seems.

It wasn't really until 2003 that he felt that it was "alright with God" for him to be an artist. He tried and had mild success with abstract paintings, live poetry performances, music creation, saponification, acting in, and directing a play, game creation, and a couple more that were just horrible excuses for a writer to be involved with.

But then, in a flash, he decided to publish a book of poetry. Like that, he was hooked. "Stupid Mind Tricks" was his first adventure in really getting into the professional side of things. After that, he wrote his first novel: "By the Gates of the Garden of Eden" and it's been a roller-coaster after that.

Since 2010, he's published 20 works, along with one co-authorship with his wife. There doesn't seem to be any law against writing a zillion books, and, in the end, that's probably what Pauly Hart will end up doing.

Follow his antics and strangeness at

Book Excerpt

Superior Respondent


                "I don't know which one I am, or if this is the first time I've written this note," the paper said. "All I know is that I think someone is following me."
                "Yes." I said to the note. "I am."
                I crumpled it in my hand. "And we've done this before."
                I tore the note into tiny pieces and put most of them in my pocket and some into the trashcan next to the end of the row of lockers. I would throw them away in three different cans later. You couldn't be too careful. I used to burn them, but sometimes these places had sensors. Burning things just got people to ask questions you didn’t want to answer.
                The day was already dog-tired. I looked at my watch. One in the morning. That seemed right. The coffeeshop was near and I wanted to catch her today.
                But she wasn't there. When I want to see her, she isn't there, when I don't care, that's when she turns up. Time to go home.
                I checked my driver’s license. The address seemed right. Where did I park the car? I walked back to the parking lot. It was only three blocks. The Joplin streets were warm tonight and the bus station was empty, as usual.
                No one came to the bus station at one in the morning. Not even the cops. If this had been a Greyhound bus station that would be different. But this terminal wasn't used until seven and the place was deserted. The bars weren't near and the only thing else was an all-night laundromat that was next to the coffeeshop: All Day Beans. Stupid name for a coffeeshop.
                "Blurp-blurp!" the car alarm triggered. I had been walking around the mostly deserted lot punching the button until it triggered. I had hoped that the car I was getting into was mine, and it seemed I was right. It felt right at least. The monthly lot never checked after nine at night and it seemed like somewhere I would leave it.
                Almost forgot. Walking back to the boxes, I plugged in my eight quarters to the box next to it and moved everything out of the old box, and returned the key. I put the new key on my keychain and went back to the car.
                "Bit late for a stroll ain't it?" The night watchman asked. I hadn't even noticed him.
                "Uh yeah. Hey, I thought you guys didn't check these after nine."
                "We changed that a couple of years ago. Gonna have to charge you for a day."
                "Fine. That's my car there." I burped the alarm once again.
                "Oh, I know. I watched you park it before midnight. You told me you would only be a couple of minutes. Then you sat there for a while and I figured you fell asleep. It's gonna be eighty-seven bucks."
                "Fine." I said, and gave him a hundred, happy to be leaving. “Keep the change.”
                "Have a good night sir." He said and went back inside to his kiosk. He was armed. Armed was bad. How serious was this town anyway? And, eighty-seven dollars? I had some serious issues with that price.
                In the car I looked at my GPS. Home was marked and I punched it in. That seemed about right. I let the navigation lead me home and parked in the driveway. The house was dark, I was probably the only one here.
                I got out and went inside. No pets. Just me. No time for sleep. Back to the math. I began the sequence on some paper I found in the desk. Thirty minutes into it, my stomach growled. Right on time. That wasn't usually the case at... (I checked my watch) Two in the morning. This guy wasn't eating properly.
                Two Turkey Swiss sandwiches later, I was ready for a nap. I figured I had to be at work at seven I thought, so it might be alright to...
                The phone rang.
                "Hello. This is me." I said.
                "Of course it's you, dipshit!" The other voice screamed. "Where the hell are you?"
                The best excuse is to always blame technology.
                "My alarm didn't go off." I said. "Must have done the AM/PM thing."
                "The what? Hell. Just get into the office. Matt is furious. And now he’s pissed off at me for waking him up!"
                "Office. Right. I'll be there in a jiffy." I said.
                "Man Ned, just hurry your lame ass up so I can go home." He said and hung up.
                I put the phone down. The alarm was flashing but it had never gone off. Probably a heat sensor thing. I went to it and it started beeping. I fiddled with it and turned it off. I hated heat sensitive alarms.
                I went to the desk and rifled around for a second for an envelope or a paystub or something to give me the address. Wait. It might be programmed into the car. Of course it was. I know me. I would do something like that.
                Lo and behold it was. The GPS had my work address too. I started the car, put it in gear and hesitated. I looked at my clothes. Average street clothes. I turned the car off and went back inside. Hmmm. What to wear? The dirty clothes seemed helpful. "Dave's Repair" shirts and ball-caps and even a jacket were here and there in the pile. I threw on the least smelly ones and headed back to the car.


                Programmed in "Work" on the GPS again just to make sure it was the same place. Yep. Dave’s Repair, here I come.
                It was in one of those little strip malls that you find near low end apartment complexes. Pale yellow lights. The smell of a dirty dumpster. I parked next to a gold Tahoe.
                The door was locked. I banged for a bit until I heard someone on the other side.
                "Who is it?" He said oddly.
                "It's me." I said. The door opened.
                "Your key broken?" Craig said as he opened it up.
                "Nah. Just didn't want you freaking out when I came in." I said.
                "Fella, the reason that I am freaking out is because you’re late. Not because you’re here." He said.
                "Sorry about that. Won't happen again." I could make that promise with ease.
                "You think I care? Today's my last day anyway." He said, grabbing his coat and bag from the table next to the door.
                "Yeah. Well... You take care then." I said.
                "Sure, whatever." He pulled the key off his key ring. “Give this to Big Matt, would ya? I gotta hit the hay." He moved past me and went out the door.
                A quick nap, some internet... Which was pretty normal, only it seemed that XKCD gave me a 404, so that sucked. Oh well, another nap couldn’t hurt.
                Four hours later I hand the key to Matt and receive a berating for my tardiness.
                "No calls. No emergencies. Everything status quo." I give my report.
                "Good. Now get moving on that 9 o'clock thing over in Leawood. Don't be late." He yells as he goes to the back to get coffee.
                I go to where the clipboards are. Hmmm... 9 o'clock thing... 9 o' - Aha. Here it is. Water heater, or hot water heater as some people call it. It’s a plumbers joke: If it's already hot, then why heat it?
                "Alright boss! I got the work order.” I guess about the next part. Don't say van. Don't say van. "Which one you want me to take?"
                "The blue one!" He yells from the back. "And turn on the sign!"
                The open sign? I guess. Yeah. I find the power cord and plug it in. The sign comes on. Done. Next? Find the blue one. Hopefully a truck.

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