The Promotion

Sitting in an off-white, slightly dented (so it doesn't close all the way) file folder box storage contraption (its official name) is (how are you doing following this sentence so far) a collection (I swear I don't back down on annoying gimmicks like this) of my old (very old) writings.

And some are on flashdrives.

Here's what I got.

• (note in my profile my affinity for lists...also note the cute chin.)
• One absurdly long memior slash travel guide slash apology.
• One murder mystery political thriller than involves the gay son of a Senator...and guns. I, for the record, know nothing about guns.
• One rambling tale from 3 POV's -- a man who is gay and a politician (theme?), a man who has a child (that is kept secret until later, so sucks to be you reading this now) and finds out later he (not the child) is also gay, and the child -- a deaf kid who is, despite the amateur writing and poor use of commas (see previous blog), quite endearing.
• Four Winnie the Pooh wanna-be's. My kids like them so bugger off.
• One story of Jackie Robinson's first game told from a fictional character attending the game. A LOT of detail.
• One story of the flying of the Enola Gay told by a fictional pilot (though with research from the actual pilot -- impressive, eh?)
• One story...

The point is, I have written a lot in my years on this planet. A lot. My recently published first novel (which I will not self promote until my NEXT blog) is the first leap into the general public actually getting a taste of my words on paper. (I chose off-white for the book to give it a slightly carmel/vanilla flavor.)

Does a writer return to the days of old and try to rehash the bad-old-stories for editing, criticism, and eventual publishing? Or does one create anew via inspiration from life? Or, to be blunt about it, does one blog?

I leave you to ponder this while I sleep. But return tomorrow for another story.