Back in the sixties, I remember gabbing with a guy who had just
finished reading a poem in a coffeehouse. He refused to call
himself a writer or a poet; rather he called himself an artist. I
asked why he made the distinction.
"Everyone's a writer or a poet," he said.
The coffeehouse's owner paid him to read his poems nightly because it brought in customers. "They're the artsy-fartsy crowd," he said. "Wouldn't know a poem from a letter to Santa. Me neither."
"I'm a tourist attraction," my artist friend laughed. "At least that's something."
It's funny how some memories stick around.
This is my first and most likely last novel. It's sort of a mental big bang about a madman written by a madman. If you decide to read it, I apologize in advance. I'll post a chapter or two so you can get a feel for the thing if you're curious. I write poetry and short stories as well. Eventually, I might post some of them too.
A few years ago, Charli and I visited Gettysburg. One of the tourist attractions was a house that was caught in the crossfire between the North and South. In one room, the mirror shown in the picture was pointed out. It seems a ghost is sometimes visible in it. So this is a little like "Where's Waldo?" See if you can find it. Click on the image to make it bigger.