Where do you get your imagination?

People who’ve read my stuff ask me where it comes from. “Where did you ever get an idea like that?” they ask.

From as far back as I can remember, my father told me I was adopted. He said I was left on his doorstep with a note from the king of Prussia, whose realm was under attack.

I saw the note. Large black letters scrawled on cheap lined paper decreed that the king’s baby must be hidden, educated and trained to return and save the Prussian crown. It even had a dripped-candle-wax seal that would appear to be official to any five-year-old.  Continue reading →

One of the best day jobs a writer can have is in an office. Once you’re there for a while, you’re considered a trustworthy employee. Security becomes relaxed and you become convinced it’s your right to exploit the company’s computers, printers, copiers and the endless supply of paper. It’s not really theft. It’s more like a fringe benefit, isn’t it? I believe in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, but it’s after hours when the day job really pays off. Once everyone has gone home, the entire building is mine.

I spend so many nights at the office; I’m on a first-name basis with the cleaning staff. I can tell you the names of their children – their interests and ambitions, too. Why just last week, Maria invited me to her wedding; and Hector has been giving me Spanish lessons during his 9:00 PM lunch break on Tuesdays. During the lunch breaks on Thursdays, I read chapters of my novel to the entire cleaning crew.  Continue reading →

I love to listen to the blues. I used to be a regular at several of the small, smoky clubs that are hidden from Main Street on the north side of the city. Those dens where electric blues screamed from towers of speakers piled on small bandstands. Places infected with rhythm and soul. Places where even old white men would get up and dance.  Continue reading →

It is no longer a wonder to me. I write because I come from a family of writers. My recent genealogy research has unveiled several of these family dramatists.

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Many of you don’t know it, but I’m old enough to be your grandpa. Don’t let the hip, irreverent voice that I write in fool you – I’m old.

I’ve met a lot of writers – most of them say something like: “Oh, I’ve always written.” I can’t say that – unless I can count my graffiti on the sides of bridges or the walls of bus stop shelters. Some were complete sentences. No, I decided to be a writer at the age of 50. I think it was right after the tattoo, or maybe the ear piercing. I’m not sure.  Continue reading →

Some time ago, I attended a Weekend Writer’s Workshop. I was the only guy there along with maybe 15 women, which isn’t unusual. They were all wonderful writers and genuinely nice people – which isn’t unusual either.

At the end of our first session, we were given an overnight assignment – write the beginning to a story or article about scrapbooking. On the following day, we would read them aloud and share them with the group.  Continue reading →