When I was seven I wrote a story about a space ship landing in our back yard. The aliens were friendly and, at some point, they ate purple ice cream. As mothers do, mine told me it was brilliant. A year later, I thought it was dumb. A year after that, I wished I could write like that again. The next year, I burned it. My mom spanked me for playing with matches. The next day I wrote a story about a mean old mother and her reign of terror. As mothers do, she said it was cruel. The next day, I burned it.
I was always a writer. Only, I was never very good once my age hit double digits. And Ive only gotten worse with age. Last year, I published "The Angel Walks at Dawn," my third short story, as well as "Booker Dane and the Case of the Copper Box," my second failed attempt at a novel. Tim Zachary, my publisher, loved it. I wanted to trash all copies of it. He said it was gold. I wanted to go back to purple ice cream. He published it. And it sold. Four copies. Two of them to Zach. The Dane story had been out a few weeks and had tanked so badly that Zachary wanted a sequel. Go figure. The cruel mother was creeping back into my thoughts. Zach suggested that I consider bringing in a youthful detective for Booker to train. He thought it would grab a larger audience. I considered his words.…youthful…train…. I took a train back to where I was when I was youthful.
I needed to clear my thoughts. I wanted to write something fresh.
I went back to my college for inspiration. I never had any while I was here, and the muses decided I would find it just as fleeting. Hell, I dont know what I was expecting. I had only graduated two years before. I needed to dig deeper. Go a little farther back.
In high school, I wrote for the school paper. Twice. The first time was a travesty. My article on dropouts among the football players, "Varsity Team Perfects Incomplete Pass," went over like caviar at a trailer park. My second article was a mistake. Suffice it to say, the storm af... Læs hele novellen
