And so it came to pass that in a little dinner on Dover Street, during the lunch rush, on no distinguishably different day I met her.

She happened to be wearing a green smock which had a large four leaf clover embroidered in the center of it. She said the oddest things and in the blink of an eye, she was gone.

I couldn’t fathom what had just happened, much less describe it to anyone. She simply was there, and then wasn’t. I pondered it greatly over the next several hours, and in the end, I was certain of two things, she had been there, and I had been the only one who saw her. How this is possible I can’t explain it but I now know that I am not imagining what happened. I can say this with all certainty because she dropped a book before she disappeared.

I know she didn’t mean to drop it but nonetheless, there it was. Of course I went over and picked it up before anyone else had a chance to take it. After all, it was my ticket to meeting the woman who would end up saving the earth.

The Dust Devil swirling along the gutter, terminating its existence in front of the thing squatting at the back of alley.

The darkness of the room’s corner conceled him. He waited, oversized .38 special in hand. It really was a special .50 cal he’d picked up, but in his hands it seemed small. It looked just like a .38 Special, just enormous, unles he was holding it.
Come on punk, he thought. You know you want to come meet your maker. Maximillion Reginald, known to his friends and associates as Max Red, was an enormous, and powerful black man. He had been blessed with a rare gene, one which gave him the ability to see in just about any light, making his job much easier. Max was a detective, not the best, but damn good. Unlike others in his profession, Max could work where others couldn’t.

Recently I had the opportunity to discuss the concept of reading other authors’ works. A statement was made that authors need to read other authors works for period language, concepts of genre, and a mean by which one can breath a greater essence of life into your story. Initially I had disagreed with my fellow author. I held dear the belief that an author should not be influenced by another’s work, to be true to one’s self is of utmost importance. However, I was was incorrect.

Take the time to read, find the books that you can use as resources, and place them on a shelf to become your personal reference works. These stories can be invaluable tools for accessing period language, descriptions, and concepts that can help you write that truely amazing work.

Looking back on the two stories, that were originally supposed to be five, that made it into the book I find myself at the jumping off point. A point where the assignment is over, and it’s now time to begin a new chapter. Do I really want to keep on writing, as this task has taken so much out of me. If pressed I would say yes, but I’m not sure anyone will be interested in my older works, and I know they are garbage compared to what they should be. I began those stories so long ago that they I view them now as being written with colored wax instruments. So do I really want to continue or do i want to begin again? I would like to finish the other three stories I have begun, those that did not make the Pink Final Cut.

And so I bled for the craft that is writing, and am I well written? No, I think not. I don’t know if one every truly becomes well written. I do know that having written something, I can say that I flew, I soared high into the sky and among the clouds. Most people that want to write are really people who want to want to write and simply never do.

I’ve been asked in the past what the key to being a writer is, I simply respond by asking the person to pick a word. I then have them write it down. Next I have them pick a word they think goes with it, and then have them write that down. I finally ask them to keep doing this until they’ve written the story. To never give up, even through adversity, even through the blood red pen marks and harsh critiques and criticisms, that is what it means to be a writer.

You can write every single day of your life, all day long and still not be well written. You have to want to be better, to improve. Couple that with your desire to write, and then actually do it.. then, and only then, will you be a writer.

From the inkwell…