How I Write
Sticks and stones and alligator bones. I collect them and grind them into powder. A pinch a day into a triple mocha and I’m good to go.
My literary agent says I’m a fool to divulge this information, that I’ll lose my edge on the young crowd, that they’ll bull their way into my well-cornered market. But I say bring it on if they think all it takes is voodoo.
I also keep a keen eye out for the obvious.
Like today, driving up to this hill, I got a glimpse of a band of pixies spinning skyward in a bright wash of sunlight.
I saw a hedgehog in a tutu pushing a wheelbarrow in a parking lot.
I saw a shape shifter turn from a stop sign into a fence post into crushed paper that blew under my car.
I saw a praying mantis eating rice cakes in mid-air, a cloud rolling in belly laughs down the steep face of a mountain, and angels singing from the top of a steeple.
I saw a small boy turn into an old man and fall off the curb, and then I heard tires screeching on asphalt and moved on when the light turned green.
Beyond that, it has to do with my choice of pens or the number of sheets remaining in a yellow pad; having a birth defect and an ungainly attitude may play a part, who’s to say?
The cyclops in the back seat burps and turns a page in the book he’s reading.
The gremlin that’s come up thru the floorboard steals a glance at his watch.
Tire Grabbers left over from my novel rummage thru the juniper outside the car, looking for chipmunks.
And so on and so forth.