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By the jetty at the river of my mind, emptying into a gray, rainy Atlantic Ocean-it seems Monmouth County, New Jersey has replaced Seattle has iconic damp geography-I’m drifting back ten years, when something( I love that word) made me start to formally write. Early words were a concoction of family memories and tribute to an irascible uncle. A few weeks ago, I found those first forty pages and honestly there isn’t a clue what the story line was about. Ten long years can do that but those pages are testament to how far determination, spirit and resolve can take an author. I decided a few weeks ago to call myself an author. A website is nearly finished and first novel, ‘Vichy Water’, is due out at the end of November.
How many times in an old life does one hear the expression, “out of body experience?” The final realization stage of being an author is just that. Last night, with the final proof of the cover in my hand, wrapping it around a soft cover novel of the same size, I stared in four minute intervals; Simon and Garfunkel and Bruce Springsteen(Born to Run, I can’t listen enough) provided back-up.
Now the introspective jetty becomes an author’s blog. Me. Author. Blog. Disbelief. The long winding road to finishing the novel and daily eventualities, firing cerebrally, conjuring ideas and words, become blog. What am I? Back a few sentences, I used the word, concoction. Perhaps a stew simmering in a pressure pot, ingredients sliced and dropped: spirituality, environment, synchronicity, youth, and vitality.
Nearly four years ago, one rainy March morning, when outside doubles tennis was cancelled, that something said watch Casablanca; unrequited energy and a spirit made me do it. A few moments from movie’s end, Claude Rains throws a bottle of ‘Vichy Water’ into a garbage can in front of Humphrey Bogart. My novel was born. That quick.
Blog wise, I’ll impart, share, listen and just fire away what relevancy comes to mind. I just finished my first blog entry so a left arm got pinched and it felt good.