Birth of an Idea

...Thursday evening.

An autumn sunset has created a smudge of color across the distant skyline. Like an oil painting, variations of pink and orange blended together from the hand of an artist touched by an angel.

From both sides of the ball field, young men raise their arms into the breeze, four fingers outspread...fourth quarter underway.

As they've done throughout most of the season, the game has long been decided, both teams having already pulled their starters, allowing their second string players a chance to scuff up their cleats.

I watch my son standing along the sidelines with his teammates, helmets clutched at their sides, smiles spreading like an air-born virus. Thus far the season has been a success. Fourteen year old athletes riding a four game winning streak, dreaming of varsity ball under the lights, less than a year away.

My son turns toward the stands, spots me in the crowd, offers a grin before returning his gaze to the action. I answer with a chuckle. Sky's the limit for that kid.

Down by thirty, the opposing team is threatening to score. They line up at our ten yard line, their backup quarterback barking out the play.

The football's hiked, the passer shuffles his feet, winds up and tosses the ball into the endzone...to an awaiting receiver, hands outstretched.

A blur of blue and gold and our backup defender sweeps into the action, snags the football, and bolts in the opposite direction.

My son's backup, the boy doesn't get much time on the field in most games. An interception is a rare treat. Standing along the sideline, my son and his teammates leap for joy.

Then as the boy rumbles into the open field, I spot something else. The boy's father, unable to stand pat, stumbles to the asphalt track outlining the football field, and begins sprinting along the sidelines to the same pace as his son...as the boy hits the fifty yard line, his legs churning like the pistons of a car.

The boy's head turns, spots his father, in blue jeans and t-shirt, a ball cap turned backwards, matching his stride as he heads for the score.

The boy aims his sites on the distant goal line. Quickens his pace. The crowd rises as one, father and son on a footrace to glory.

...and I think, "This is a story."

I see the track and think, "Not a football game, but a track meet. A runner, for some reason disqualified, but running for no other reason than pride alone. Racing along beside the track, versus opposing runners, competing...but not."

The young defensive back rumbles over the twenty, no one within ten yards of tripping him up. His father keeping pace, nearly plows over a young lady balancing a plastic tray overfilled with nachos, oblivious to the drama.

And I think, "Not a boy. A girl. Really fast. But for some reason unable to participate."

Behind the endzone, an ambulance is parked, its occupants jumping up and down, their hands clapping in anticipation.

And I think, "Perhaps an injury. Or maybe a religious dispute. A family's beliefs thwarting the athletic prowess their daughter was born with."

The boy falls into the endzone. His father leaps into the air. The crowd roars their approval.

And I think..."Need a name for that girl."

Hours later. The kids are tucked in. The excitement of victory settling down for another day.

I hear my wife giggling from the office. "Hey, come in here," she calls. "Check this out."

I enter the office, follow her gaze to the computer screen, my brow rising. "What's this?"

"One of those funny emails," she says. "This one determines what my porn name would be...you know, if I'd be in that line of work."

I shake my head, "In that line of work? Really?"

Then I see the name. "Derby Wayne."

And I think, "Derby...like a race track. Or somebody's nickname. For somebody who's really fast....like a girl. Derby Wayne."

"That's perfect," I say.

"It is?" my wife asks. "Like...your wanting me to change careers, or what?"

"Absolutely perfect," I say, ignoring her.

"Perhaps I should look for an agent," she continues.

But I've already left the room, yanking a sheet of paper out of the printer, my other hand snatching a pencil from under my wife's elbow, next to the keyboard. My brain spinning somersaults. An outline literally writing itself.

And while "South of Charm" heads toward the galley...a new story begins.

That's how it works for me...

Thanks for reading,

EL

"Full Circle" (A 100 Followers Tribute)

...I've been debating ways to express my gratitude over achieving my 100th follower last weekend. Contests appear to be the norm, but with a busy calendar, I fear the results would be disappointing, if not prolonged. Then I had a thought, and rolled with it. Kind of spreading the love, announcing the new title of my upcoming novel, and...well, you'll see.

Enjoy.

...the air tasted moist, salty from the Gulf's shores, tendrils of endless water slapping sand just around the block.

With evening's approach, the temperature managed to flutter below triple digits for the first time all day, yet the humidity remained unforgiving, like crawling through a sauna. From their expressions, the locals seemed oblivious to the heat, as was I. For nothing could've dampened my spirits on this day.

An orange moon celebrating the year's harvest was rising above distant rooftops as I enjoyed the cobbled streets outlining the Riverwalk along the southern tip of New Orleans. Neon lights twinkling from shop windows, and children dashing through a nearby fountain, their proud parents hovering nearby, sipping iced teas and conversing like relatives.

Following Katrina's wrath, this area had been looted to a pile of rubble and broken glass, but along with the drowned city, her people rallied behind a spirit unwielding, and the outdoor shopping complex was resurrected.

Stepping at a leisurely pace, enjoying the evening, I rounded Canal Street, skipped over to Bourbon, and heard the jazz before spying the nightclub in the distance. A moment later and the neon sign for the Bourbon Street Blues Company rose like a beacon through humidity's mist. I grinned like a child, and made haste.

The air inside the elderly structure smelled of cigars and whiskey, sweat and the lure of sirloin from the kitchen. I considered the dim lighting, tables scattered about, a bar supporting numerous patrons, and a table in the back, the silhouette of a friend relaxing in seclusion. My smile broadened.

I passed by the stage, offering a nod to the rhythm guitarist, an old acquaintance, who smiled in return, his fingers strumming soul.

At the table I stopped, considering the shadow hunched over his nearly empty glass. "What, couldn't wait for me to get here?" I asked.

"Long day, my friend. Thirst and fatigue demanded respite."

The figure rose and extended his hand, which I accepted. "Long day, I agree," I said. "But not without reward. This idea of yours was a revelation."

Roland Yeomans grinned despite himself. "I'm so glad you could attend. Your presence capped off the festivities."

"Wouldn't have missed it for anything. My hand aches from signing."

"It's a pleasurable pain, my friend. Remember the old days, the struggles."

"Agreed."

"Don't think for a minute you'all can start without me!"

Roland and I turned as a true southern belle approached, toting an armload of novels under one arm, balancing a drink with the other.

"Wouldn't have dreamed of it," Roland said. "How's Olivia this evening?"

Olivia J. Herrell dropped the books on the table, released a sigh, and said, "Boys, that was the best damn book signing I've ever been a part of. I've no idea how many covers I sold, but it was worth the drive, I can promise you that!"

I motioned toward the pile of literature. "You were supposed to sell the goods, not bring anything back with you," I teased.

"Oh these...well, there were just too many writers here today that I wanted to read, so I made a few rounds as well."

"As did I," Roland said. He then turned as a hand clamped onto his shoulder.

"Roland, this event of yours was a marvel," Anne Gallagher said, offering Roland a hug. "I haven't sold this many copies since my debut."

"Glad you could make it," Roland said. "This was indeed memorable."

"Anne, my dear," Olivia said. "Couldn't help but notice that you were quite chummy with Charlene Harris today. You guys wouldn't be teaming up for a power novel anytime soon, would you?"

"What?" I chimed in. "Genna suddenly grows fangs and starts chewing on Pete in all the wrong ways?"

Anne placed her hands on her hips. "Well, Elliot, you never can tell."

"I'm headed to the bar," I said, spotting another group of colleagues planted on stools and conversing with the server. "Anyone in need of a refill?"

I took the order and approached the bar, placing a hand on Karen G's shoulder along the way. "So, was it worth coming down from Utah?" I asked.

I was greeted with an embrace. "Elliot, signed more copies than I thought my fingers could handle," she said. "Roland's book fair idea was spectacular."

"And House of Diamonds is doing well?"

"It's a dream come true."

At the bar I placed the order, listened to the opening segment of the next jazz hilt, then spotted a pair of fellow writers laughing over their drinks nearby. They saw me and motioned for my presence.

"Hello ladies," I said. "I take it you both had profitable outings?"

Smiles coated the faces of both Jemi Fraser and Becky Miller.

"Unforgettable," Jemi said.

"Best sales I've ever had," Becky agreed.

"Good to hear." I motioned toward our table at the back of the bar. "Roland was the brains behind the event. Don't forget to stop by."

"On our way!"

I returned to our table and recognized yet another familiar face. "Christine Danek, all the way from P.A. Tell me, was it worth the trip?"

"Just spoke to my husband," she said. "Told him if sales remained this good down here, I may not return!"

A chorus of laughter rose the decibel.

"Roland and Elliot, leave it to you two to sweet talk a band of Yankees to play jazz in a bar in the deep south!"

"Terry!" Roland exclaimed. "So glad you could make it!"

"Wouldn't have missed it for anything," Terry Stonecrop announced, accepting hugs around the table.

"Roland and I thought those boys on stage kinda fit the bill for an event like this," I said.

"Definitely a good fit," Terry agreed.

"Don't start the party without me, you rubes!"

Everyone turned as Lola Sharp found an empty spot at the table. "Talk about a gathering of the minds!"

"Where you been, sweetheart?" I laughed, greeting the writer from across the table.

"Rendezvous," she grinned sheepishly.

I arched my brow. "Does your husband know of this?"

She answered with a blush. "He was the rendezvous."

"Ha!" I laughed. "Well done!"

"Yeah, that's what he said."

Roland nudged my shoulder. "Isn't that Anita at the bar with her husband?"

"Sure is," I said. "She wrote my first review on South of Charm. I'm forever in her debt."

"Sometimes a good review is all it takes."

A whine escaped from Olivia as a pair of gentlemen passed by and lingered.

"Oh calm yourself," I mumbled into her ear.

"Can't help it," she said. Every time I see him, I still can't believe I now keep the same company."

"Neil, how are you this evening," Roland asked, accepting a handshake from Gaiman.

"Thanks for inviting us," Neil said. "This event was invigorating. A southern book fair with waiting lines into the streets. Unforgettable."

"My only question," said the man next to him. "Is how did you two manage to get my old man down here?"

"Was nothing, Joe," I said. "Told him he'd own the stage at Bourbon Street, and he agreed immediately.

Joe Hill released a whistle. "Well played."

We all turned and enjoyed the seedy tune from the stage where The Rock Bottom Remainders played front and center. Dave Barry on lead guitar, Ridley Pearson on bass, Mitch Albom on keyboards, and of course, Joe's father, Stephen King strumming the rhythm guitar. He offered us a grin as our glasses rose in salute.

"Does your dad know that Roland just surpassed him on the best-seller list?" I asked Joe.

"Might wanna wait till he's done playing before bringing that up," Joe kidded. "About time someone knocked off the old man anyway."

"Can you'all believe this," Olivia said, looking around the table. "From Blogger buddies, to best-selling writers, and here we all are, celebrating in Nawlins!"

I dug my phone out of my pocket, sensing the vibrations. I then read the text, unable to hide the grin.

"More good news?" Roland asked.

"My wife," I said. "The adoption just went through."

"Cheers!" Anne announced. "So your headed to Africa?"

"Next week. It's a dream come true for her. Adopting a little one from across the ocean."

For a second time glasses were raised, drinks toasted.

The party lingered into the wee hours of morning, a gathering of long time starving artists who's ships had at long last sailed to port. Of lives changed overnight, friendships harbored over dreams. Dreams having come true.

It can happen, my friends. Keep pounding the keys...it can happen:)

"South of Charm"-Coming 2011

Grillin & The Gridiron

...as Karen G's Blogger Barbecue winds down this weekend, considering the time of year, only fitting that we top off the Blogfest at a high school football game.

Enjoy...

...September's autumn breeze, like a newborn's touch, kissed our cheeks as we claimed our row in the stands.

On the football field, a pair of youth teams clad in helmets and their respective school's battle fatigues were preparing for competition.

Familiar faces began filing in around us. Mothers and grandparents, worrisome lines etching each brow, concerned for the safety of their loved ones. Proud fathers, their arms folded over thick chests, confident grins upon their faces, nodding to one another while sharing the same gleam in their eyes as their offspring on the field.

I followed suit. The passing of an athletic torch from a father to a son.

I turned to my wife. "Want any popcorn or a Coke before kickoff?"

She threw me a nod and a wave while chatting with a fellow mother about the latest rumor floating about. A student with a new string of flu, or a teacher suffering through a sobriety test the past weekend. I left them to it, the craving for a pre-game hot dog too urgent to pass up.

Sensing the breeze strengthening with the passing hour, I jogged out to the car and grabbed our jackets, figuring I'd get congratulated for planning ahead.

My return to the stands however was greeted with a chorus of scowls, not only from my wife, but from the entire section of hometown faithful. Then I glanced at the row behind us and determined why.

The couple was obviously rooting for the opposing team. The lady was dressed in a strapless top the color of a fire hydrant. A pair of cutoff Wranglers were riding up to just below her bum, varicose veins like sporadic bolts of lightning traveling the length of each thigh. She'd already slipped out of her sandals, a set of callused feet, gangly toe-nails bearing a layer of chipped polish matching her shirt, were propped on the back of my seat.

I assumed she would lower them with my arrival, but was denied the kindness.

"There he is now! That's my boy, number 33! Teddy Jr. Yes sir-ee!"

I cautioned a glance at the proud father and cringed. The man was shirtless, the tattoo of a soaring Bald Eagle covered the width of his chest, its beady eyes glaring at me through a patch of chest hair.

His head was shaved like Mr. Clean, however a strawberry shaded goatee drooped several inches off the tip of his chin.

A collage of artwork coated both arms. A pair of skeletons wielding rebel flags. A ball and chain, the links starting at his wrist and winding around his triceps only to disappear in a thicket of armpit hair.

I sat down, handed my wife a drink and her jacket.

"Can we move somewhere else?" she asked in a mumble.

I answered with, "I've been thinking of getting a tattoo."

"Why aren't they in the visitor's section?"

"Maybe one of those tribal things around my arm. Palm trees or something tropical."

"Will you get serious? He won't shut up about his kid."

"Yes sir-ee, my boy's gonna do some damage tonight!"

I turned around just in time to watch him lift an empty Mt. Dew bottle to his lips, a mass of used up tobacco plummeting from his mouth trailing a thread of stained saliva.

"So, Teddy?" I asked. "What position does Junior play?"

The man's scowl was accompanied with a jaw full of crooked teeth the color of mustard. "Name's Harold, mister." He shared the gaze with the woman in red. I felt a toe stab me in the small of my back. A stressful moment passed in silence, my wife quietly chuckling by my side. Then he said, "Teddy Jr. plays all over the field. No one can stop him. Fastest boy in the county. You'll see."

At this my smile faded. "All right. He's Superman, we get it. But where's he start at on the field?"

"Receiver. Gonna go pro, yes sir-ee."

"I just felt spit land on my neck," my wife hissed into my ear. "Can we move now?"

"These are our seats, Hon," I said. "And anyway, the kid's a receiver." I nudged her elbow, smiling. "Let's watch the kickoff and see what happens."

Moments later all eyes focused on a football rising into the air. Standing alone at the other end of the field stood Teddy Jr.

He caught the ball and rumbled ten yards before anyone reached him. Spinning away from the first defender, he gained the open field and hit a second gear. From behind me the couple began hooting like a pair of exuberant owls, watching their son cross mid-field.

Teddy Jr. rocketed eighty yards before finally getting pushed out of bounds. "Woo-wee!" his father barked. "I told ya! Fastest boy in the county! Now he's gonna score!"

On their first offensive play, Teddy Jr. lined up at receiver, his chest pounding like a snare drum. The ball was hiked, the passer dropped back, his gaze focused entirely on 33 as the boy faked out his defender and loped into the end zone. The quarterback lofted the ball into the air.

"Here it is!" Teddy's father bellowed, showering my wife and I in spit and tobacco juice.

We watched the football flutter toward Teddy's outstretched arms, when a player in blue streaked into the picture. Moving with the agility reminiscent of the "Falcons" logo on his helmet, the defender snatched the pass out of the air just as Teddy's hands were about to close around the ball. The boy bobbed and weaved by several of Teddy's teammates, then found himself in the open field heading in the other direction.

Within moments Teddy had taken up the chase, leaving the two speedsters in a foot race down the sideline.

They remained less than a foot apart until the fifty yard line, when the Falcon defender began pulling away from Teddy Jr. With the hometown crowd rising to its feet, the Falcon swooped into the endzone for the first score of the game.

I joined in the celebration, accepting a hug from my wife, shoulder slaps from friends nearby. Out of the corner of my eye I watched the air deflate from the bare chest of the man behind me.

"Sheesh, that boy was fast," he mumbled. "Who was that?"

"We call him Rocket," someone in the row next to us announced. "The fastest boy in the county!"

"That your boy?" the man asked him.

"Nope...his," a half dozen index fingers angled in my direction. My wife turned and offered a wave. I couldn't help but grin.

"Boy's fast," the man mumbled. "Real fast."

Before the first quarter had ended, with the good guys already ahead by two scores, I sensed a change in scenery and turned.

Without our noticing, the couple had left.

(...okay, so I dramatized things a bit. But his nickname really is Rocket, and he really did snag himself an interception. He's pretty darn fast, but he still can't beat his pop in a foot race:)

Thanks for reading,

EL

Unexpected...

...currently, there's a file in my email containing a set of cover designs, accompanied with a handful of fresh title ideas from my indie-pub. One of them I'm even quite fond of.

And yet their requests for an opinion have gone unanswered.

The manuscript is going through its final edit. A beta reader has been recruited, the project nearing completion with a press the size of a Mac truck eagerly awaiting.

And yet I've held my excitement in check.

An acknowledgment is due, and I've yet to begin.

My new manager at the dayjob, whose badge number just happens to be 666, has already issued me a verbal warning for reading Karin Slaughter's "Undone," while on the clock.

I suppose I should be concerned, but the reprimand has failed to inspire angst. (Insignificant foolishness sprayed from the mouth of an obtuse twit.)

For the past week, something's been on my mind. Something bearing far more consideration than reading on the job, or even concentrating on a dream.

...she's a lanky twelve year old. Shoulder length hair. Armed with a "quick to the plate" mouth full of spit-fire, at times harsh, but more often, just silly...and lost. She's property of the state. A girl permanently imprisoned in the foster care system, both parents no longer in the picture.

Too old for most available suiters, too young to be considered "mature enough to decide her own fate," she's been living in a foster home, sharing a spare bedroom with three other teenage girls, considered more of a number than a name.

My wife and I, licensed foster parents, accepted an invitation for a weekend of respite care for the girl a few months ago. In a nutshell, respite care is simply a change of scenery for the foster child, some peace and quiet for her foster home, a chance for reflection for both.

Prior to her visit, we were warned of a girl quick to spout off, whose mood swings hinged on bi-polar tendencies. Who'd managed to run away from home a time or two. A girl in the dark, lost and searching...for what, she had no idea. I was told of a girl uncomfortable around men, to be patient with her.

Contrary to what we were told, the girl was well-behaved. She spent the weekend playing with my daughter, the two of them like long lost soul mates, scurrying about in the field behind our house, playing the way children did before the likes of X-Box Live and Sony's latest electronic marvel.

She revealed to us that her mother has a mental disability, that her father's been out of the picture since before she was out of diapers. That she's been in counseling for years, doctors probing, medications prescribed like candy.

The weekend was a hoot. Swimming at the YMCA. A Sunday afternoon barbecue. She left in tears, hinting of an eventual return, to which we agreed.

A month later we received a call. The girl was asking for a second weekend of respite, and was requesting us. Despite a busy schedule, we agreed.

I didn't arrive home from work until 2:30 am last Friday night. The house was dark, the wife and kids in bed. I pulled into the garage, staggered out of my car, joints whining from fatigue, when I sensed the door to the mudroom quietly opening. I looked up and saw the silhouette of a girl, and remembered her visit.

"Hello," I said. "You're up kinda late, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"I'm a little tired."

"Well...is everything okay? Why are you still up?"

I watched the shadow of a bare foot scuff along the door frame, her head lowered, lost in thought. Then, "I just wanted to say hi. I missed you guys."

"You waited up for me?"

"Is that okay?"

I felt a tightness in my chest. "Yeah, that's okay. And it's good to see you too."

Despite a ten hour shift and the need of a hot shower and a night of slumber, I spent the next hour and a half on the back porch under the stars, talking with a girl whom I'd been told didn't know how to conduct herself around the company of a father figure.

Over the course of the weekend, she informed us that she'd been diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. Of how her foster family pushed for this prognosis, declaring her mood swings unmanageable. She then spent the next three hours surrounding herself in a heap of Legos with my daughter, constructing the next great metropolis.

Rather than crying, this time around, she left quietly, accepting a hug from each of us, and offering a wave from the passenger window of her ride.

Late Sunday evening, after tucking the kids into bed, my wife took me aside and informed me that before leaving, the girl had confided in her several points of interest.

She told my wife that I was the first adult man she'd ever been able to speak comfortably with about any subject. Like an actual dad. She revealed that she'd recently started her first menstrual cycle, something I scratched my head over, wondering if in fact that explained the reasoning behind those mood swings her foster family was struggling with.

Then she asked my wife if we'd ever be interested in adopting her.

As foster parents we're taught to have skin thicker than lead. To manage the unmanageable. To find a way to change the life of an unfortunate victim, earn their respect, perhaps even their love, only to release them back into the world in a year's time. And we do.

And yet...

Like the girl, I also grew up dealing with a mother stricken with mental issues, thus inspiring the drama behind my upcoming novel. I can easily see myself in her shoes, a twelve year old lost in a world boasting of cruelty.

In this state, one would find the act of moving mountains a bit easier than reaching out to a twelve year old girl already in care, with the purpose of changing her living environment, much less beginning the process of adoption.

And yet...

She immediately made friends with my daughter and younger son. Any fears of awkwardness between her and my teenager were quashed upon watching them play catch in the back yard like long lost siblings. And when she's gone, she's on our minds, like a family member's absence.

The book is nearing completion, a lifelong dream soon to be realized. The hours I keep due to writing and the dayjob should be bottled up, shelved in a closet, and not spoken of. My wife and I argue over unpaid bills and household repairs long ignored. My kids fight over the WII controllers and who gets the last scoop of Moose Tracks wedged into the bottom corner of the freezer-burnt container.

And yet to her, we're perfect in our dysfunction. Because it's something normal. It's something real and concrete, without the worry of being scrutinized by doctors, each one waiting for the next screw up in order to diagnose her with her mother's disorder.

And so we'll wait until the time is right. For if it's meant to happen, it will. And perhaps someday she'll return...this time with more than a suitcase and a pillow.

Thanks for reading,

EL

Finished...

...this will be short, for at this point I'm spent.

Last evening, or rather, early this morning, four-ish or about, I crossed out the word "secretly" with what was once a red Sharpie, but over time had dwindled to a pink highlighter.

I re-read the final two paragraphs splayed before me for probably the thirtieth time in the past hour.

I pasted the page to an email and hit "send." The paper covered in faded red ink, I shoved into my fax and hit "send."

Then I did something I haven't been able to do in quite some time. I closed the page I was working on, clicked the "shut down" tab at the bottom of the screen, and hit "ok."

Revisions are done...

Following a six month battle against time, and re-working my re-work, the real task of writing has come to an end. Stephen King, among others, have said that by the time your work makes it to the shelves, you've read it so many times that you literally never want to see it again. Then if it does well...you have to.

My editor is not a man with a jaw full of jargon. He offers me hints, and allows me the freedom to figure out what he's after. I've sent him re-writes, and the next day received, "No way." Or, "Try again." Or my favorite, "Think this through." I lay siege to the delete button and start over.

Then on occasion I'd find this message. "Nice." Or, "Better." Once I got, "This is good."

Today, after finally waking up to the sounds of my kids terrorizing the kitchen in search of breakfast, I checked my email, opened the one from David in response to the final paragraphs I'd sent him the night before, and saw....

:)

I'm to assume at this point that we're off to the final draft and the galley. The story remains untitled at this point, after being called "Broken" since its inception, which concerns me a bit, but really isn't for me to dwell on anyway. I managed to get in my two cents on the subject by saying that I was hoping for something original. Hoping for a reader to Google the title and not find thirty-thousand entries to sift through until boredom wins out. So we'll wait and see.

As for now...my brain hurts, and my family's been neglected. I think its time for some R & R at the pool...reading a good book that someone else wrote for a change.

Thanks for reading:)

"Signs"

...I penned the following roughly a year ago under a different name. It's a piece I sometimes refer to whenever in need of inspiration. With revisions nearly complete, a simple idea growing wings and preparing for launch, I felt it appropriate to re-publish something near and dear...something I'll never forget.

Enjoy...

Throughout the daily grind of time cards and babysitters, of pointless production meetings and forced overtime, we are surrounded by signs.



Small hints suggesting of a better life, floating about at eye level, or sometimes just out of the corner of one's peripheral vision, waiting to be discovered...yearning to be grasped by it's beneficiary...and boasting of the power to change everything.



Maybe it's the eery silhouette formed from that shock of sunlight through the passenger window upon the dashboard during a morning commute.



Perhaps it's a word spoken from the mouth of a complete stranger during lunch hour at a nearby table.


Something small. Something inadvertent. Something no one else would notice. For that's the beauty of it. Signs are only to be recognized for what they are by those who can see them. For those who can focus their attention at just the right moment...and see the sign. A sliver of light piercing through that somber tunnel of indifference.


Signs. They're out there. All around us. Waiting...



During the final leg of our family vacation to the Gulf Coast, we made a stop at my Great-Aunt's home a few miles north of Sarasota. I'd promised her nearly twenty years earlier that if I ever found myself aimlessly wondering the southern coasts, I'd make a point to drop by. A wife and three kids later...I kept my promise.


A short visit became an early dinner as we gathered around her dining room table and spoke of days long past. My "favorite aunt" carries with her a youthful spunk for her age, which I've always admired. And much like my late grandfather of the same family, when she speaks, people listen.


At some point during the afternoon I found myself rummaging through her collection of novels on a book shelf in her living room. Call it a nosy habit. I take interest in seeing what people are reading.


Not realizing that my aunt was standing next to me, I gave a start when she leaned in and pulled a book from the shelf just under my line of sight. She placed it into my hands and said, "See what you think of this one."


"Levi's Will," I mumbled. I studied the cover...two Amish boys walking toward a distant sunset. At first glance it didn't appear to be something I'd normally take an interest in. Then my aunt, in that calm tone of voice I'd grown accustomed to hearing over the years, mentioned something that caused me to catch my breath.


"It's a pretty good read," she said. "And we're related to the writer."


"What?" I stammered.


Noticing my sudden interest, she smiled and continued. "It's about two Amish boys who run away from home. One comes back..." She hesitated for a moment, then said, "But one never does. Not for a very long time anyway."


"W. Dale Cramer," I read the author's name aloud. "Is it a true story?"


"Kind of," my aunt said. "I can still remember when it happened. Quite a few years ago. You'll have to read it and see what you think."


I made it a priority and read "Levi's Will" as soon as we returned home.


It wasn't the type of novel I normally read. And yet, it turned out to be one of the best stories I'd come across in a long time.


Based on the life of Will Mullett, an Amish teenager who decides to run away from home, or more appropriately, the iron-fisted lifestyle of his father, Levi. His younger brother Tobe accompanies him as far south as Florida, before eventually returning home. Will Mullet never does.


The story, based on true events, chronicles the life of an Amish boy from Apple Creek, Ohio, who finds himself starting a new life practically a million miles from anything resembling his kind of normalcy.


Places like Carr Road, Millersburg, and even Winesburg become major backdrops to the plot when, after many years away, and having made a new life for himself, Will finds that he's yearning to return home.



A chill ran up my spine as I read of a scene which takes place in a restaurant in Winesburg, Ohio between Will and his son towards the end of the story. The small town of Winesburg only had one restaurant back in those days. The funny thing is, as a boy I spent a good deal of time in that very diner. In the kitchen to be exact. I'd become good friends with the owner's son, a boy of my own age, and together we'd take it upon ourselves to sneak into the kitchen after school and loot the shelves for french fries and sodas. To read of that very restaurant out of the pages of a book written by someone distantly related to me was quite the experience.


Upon finishing the novel, I found Mr. Cramer's website and on a glimmer of hope, decided to write him a letter. I really wasn't sure what I was expecting in return for my efforts. I've corresponded with other writers over the years...Steve Alten, J.D. Rhoades, Tess Gerritsen to name a few, and some have been most gracious in responding. Others however, have decided that personally responding to their fan mail is far beneath them, despite the fact that we're the reason why they've found success in the first place.

I spoke of our possibly being related, with a brief history from my side of the family. Of my roots from Carr Road, and my passion to one day make a living as a writer, like he's already achieved.


It took him one day to respond.


W. Dale Cramer lives in Georgia. He successfully published his first novel after completing an online writer's course and realizing that he may have discovered something about himself.


He never went to college. He instead married his highschool sweetheart and together are currently raising their children. He spent many years as a common laborer before at last realizing his dream of becoming a novelist.



The letter he sent me corroborated my aunt's claim. In his home in Georgia he has a geneology book of his family dating back many generations. He not only found my family's branch, he found my father, born in 1953, and he found me, a dangling twig somewhere on the far reaches of the ever thickening tree.


He revealed the names of several of the actual family members who later inspired
the making of "Levi's Will." And he also admitted that Will, the story's main character, is based on his father.


Dale Cramer ended the letter with a few words of support. "If it's a story based on the Amish cultures in Holmes and Wayne Counties...and you can get it finished...you've got a great shot at getting it published."


I've saved the letter in my email.


...had I not nosed around in my aunt's book shelf that day, I may have never known that I was actually related to a well-known writer.


...had my wonderful aunt not placed "Levi's Will" into my hands on that balmy afternoon in Florida, I never would've later written a letter to W.Dale Cramer.


...had I not read of Mr. Cramer's own struggles, only to later reach his dream, along with his final inspirational passage, my own impatience at achieving success may have one day gotten the better of me.

Signs...

Okay...I can take a hint.

I'll keep typing...

Double-Dipping

...was caught working on revisions at the day job. Its not the first time. Head-hunters with nothing better to do than sneaking around the facility, digital camera in hand, in hopes of catching a disgruntled employee conducting some form of foul play. Someone huffing on a cigarette in the break room, or sneaking a conversation with loved ones on the cell while on the company's dime. Such fiends we are.

My troublesome acts have always come from a literary form of rebellion. Reading a book on the clock, or jotting down a few lines I've dreamed up while simulating a hamster in its cage...running like hell and getting nowhere fast.

Yesterday was different. Not only was I caught red-handed working on revisions, but my captor just happened to be one of the company's biggest sharks, a fellow I'll call Al...as in Al Sphincter. The "Big A" for short.

"What are you doing?" he asks, hands clasped behind his back, his upper body leaned slightly forward...the almighty A.

Knowing I'm already busted, I say, "Working on some revisions while my part's being checked. Behind me, enclosed in its protective glass housing, a robotic arm was dancing about, touching a crystal-shaped prong to the outer diameter of a torque converter shell, cataloging every detail of an auto part soon to be jammed full with piston plates, hydraulic fluid and the like.

"Revisions," he mumbles. "For a book?"

"For a book."

"You're a writer?"

"I'd like to think so."

He grows quiet, considering his dilemma. Yes, I'm double-dipping, working on something I love, while thoroughly going through the motions with something I've learned to hate. Extra-curricular foolishness on company property. And yet...

"Wanna read it?" I ask, figuring if nothing else, I've found myself an unbiased reader.

He holds out his hand. I offer him what I've been working on...pencil scratches on fax paper.

He reads.

I watch his brow lift, and wonder if that's a good thing. I'm about to be written up, but may have just sold my first book. Good trade.

"You wrote this just now?" he asks.

"With this very pencil."

"Huh."

I can see the wheels turning..."Oh my stars, a commoner with a brain. What is this world coming to?"

Al returns the paper, and says, "You can't be doing this while on the job. This is your verbal warning."

"Okay."

He turns to leave, then stops. "I only read nonfiction...but yours is okay."

"Thank you."

I watch him turn the corner, make sure he's gone, and start shoving more lead across my paper.

...the following is what Al Sphincter declared, "Okay." I hope you agree:)

...a bead of sweat traveled from my scalp down the side of my face, where for a moment it lingered, tickling my chin before accepting its perilous fate. Bent over, hands balanced upon my knees, I watched it fall to the dust, nearly evaporating on impact.

"Coach Hummel, gimme a minute with him."

I studied the dust between my cleats. Nothing more than packed sludge, maybe a scoop of sand mixed in for good measure.

"If you leave him in, you'll ruin him. He'll never pitch again."

"Well I guess that'll keep all those precious records of yours safe, now won't it?"

Give a closer look, it wasn't really sand at all, but countless pebbles rolling about on a field of clay. Their colors, some black, others beige, blended together, providing the locals a baseball diamond similar in shade to any other. But the torn seam in the left thigh of my uniform pants whispered otherwise.

"Son, if you don't straighten up and look me in the eye this instant, you'll be making this decision a whole lot easier for me."

I did as I was told, still wary of my equilibrium. Gathering my senses, I recognized Coach Hummel leaving the ball field, head down, shoulders slumped. Then I looked at Coach Stutzman, and he looked at me.

Under the curious scope of several hundred baseball fans, my coach and I studied each other's expression from atop the pitcher's mound, before at last he spoke.

"Ya know, my youngest son, a few years older than you, he's got the athletic ability of a sloth. That boy could sprain his wrist playin checkers. But his brain's a different story. Sharp enough to leave bite marks. Gets it from his mom, I'm sure."

As he spoke, the home plate umpire's looming shadow lengthened with his approach.

"So he comes to me one day and says he wants to be a doctor, and asks if I have any advice for him. I look him straight in the eye and tell him that no matter what he does, to always keep throwin from the heart."

Hands on his hips, the umpire had joined us on the mound, his brow lowered. Stutzman ignored him.

"When he says I've flipped my lid, I tell him about a pitcher on my ball team. A skinny thing, no bigger than any other kid his age, but with a fastball like nothing I've ever seen before. And all that power, it don't come from his arm. Not his legs neither. That fastball's thrown from the strongest muscle that boy's got."

With a crooked forefinger, he reached out and began tapping my chest, a smirk curling his chapped lips. "Whatever's happened to you, its got you all bent outta shape. Got your heart pumpin like an angry drum. And out here, this is how your dealin with it. Shootin bullets at punks."

"Coach, you're outta time," the umpire stepped forward. "Gotta make a decision."

"Not up to me," Stutzman said. He stood back, folding his arms over a moistened ball shirt. "Got anything left, son?"

...35 chapters in. "Time to keep on keepin on."

Thanks for reading:)