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About the author:
I started writing at a young age. I started writing songs with my guitar. I may not be able to carry tune but I can write a lyric or two. I always dreamed of the unimaginable that is where my stories turned from dull drum to exciting. I always use the word – really- to describe my storyline. If you think it is not possible well it is.
What inspired you to write your book?
Their influences as musicians are still felt today. I took a dream and weaved a tale of what could be. My words are like lyrics on paper.
Here is a short sample from the book:
He . . .
The water was cold; he looked around the small, stark room
and realized he was naked in the tub, the bubbles long since
dissipated. His eyes remained heavy and he could hardly lift his
head—it bobbed up and down as if playing along to invisible
music. His chest felt like it was about to explode. He gasped
for air but could not inhale; the air would not come. He did not
notice that there was nothing there, and his chest would not
heave. He only noticed the pain in what he thought were his
ribs. He assumed that he fell getting into the tub.
Where was she? he thought. He tried calling out her name
but only air escaped his lips. He could not form the letters to
speak her name. He knew she was near; she was in the apartment
lying in bed, waiting for him to return from the errand she sent
The room was getting colder, or was it just the water? Only a
few minutes ago the tub was filled with warm water, but now it
was growing cold. How long had he been lying in the tub? Hours?
He could not recall. He remembered taking off his shirt and tight
leather pants and dropping them on the cold bathroom floor.
It was early July and the apartment was hot. The streets of
the city stank of rotten food and urine. Paris may be the prettiest
city in the world, but in the summertime it was hot and smelled
foul—unlike the States, where the filth was cleaned from the
streets at least once a week. Paris was for the elite and fashion forward,
but that was all.
In the dark, he heard a moan coming from the other room.
Was she awake yet? He never gave her any of the package but
kept it for himself; after all, he was the one who left to retrieve
it in the middle of the night. He thought of a line for his next
poem: “In the dark where we lie together.” He would write it
down just as soon as he could get out of the tub. Funny how the
mind works in the dark.
Since coming to Paris he felt sharper; the words played before
his eyes. His thoughts were straightforward and complete—he
was tapping into his creative side after a long drought. He felt
like Jack Kerouac, finally putting pen to paper and reliving the
first years of his life—a journey across the universe this time.
He felt alive again as he wandered through the streets of Paris.
Nobody followed him or wanted anything from him; he was free
to be himself.
Damn, his chest was constricting with pain. Every breath he
tried to take made his chest hurt worse. He assumed it was just
heartburn; after all, he had been losing weight lately. The extra
pounds he put on before coming to Paris worked their way off.
He was glad to get the extra poundage off, as he just did not feel
like himself—he felt dumpy, slow, and just could not put words
to paper. He came to Paris thinking it would inspire him, lift the
block from his mind. The atmosphere and freedom of Paris, he
was sure, would be a new start to something better. It was not as
if he did not have everything a man could want, but he just was
not living the life that suited him. He felt trapped, like the man
in the iron mask.
The pain was worse, and he clutched his chest. He rolled his
eyes toward the ceiling. Damn, why can’t she hear me? The air
around him began to smell like roses. He could finally take a
deep breath of the sweet air. He gasped.
Woozy—he felt woozy, like he was swimming in air filled
with flowers jumping up all around him. Roses wrapped around
his arms; their thorns dug into his flesh. Blood was dripping
from his puncture wounds into the water; it was turning pink
with his blood. Stems squeezed tighter around his forearms, but
he did not feel any pain. He gasped in the wonder of it all. It was
beautiful. There was some meaning behind it all, but he was not
sure what the roses were trying to tell him. It was strange and
beautiful all in the same instant. It reminded him of her beauty.
Thoughts of her entered his mind. Her doe-like eyes stared into
his. He smiled, thinking of how much he wanted to kiss her lips.
He felt only bliss. His eyes were shut, and yet he saw her face
and the roses dancing around the tub. He was happy, a happiness
that could never be described as earthly; it was all so surreal.
There was something else in the darkness near him, but
he could not fathom who or what was growing nearer, ever so
slowly—no smell but a glow around a shapeless object. Was
it a person? He did not know, but he knew it was not her. It
made no sound as it approached him. Slowly, from the left,
the glow became brighter and seemed to engulf him. He tried
to lift himself up from the water once more but could not. The
glow felt warm on his face. He wanted to ask it a question,
but nothing came from his lips. He had so many questions. He
knew it would know the answers. The presence was something
more than just a presence; was it Jack Kerouac coming to
debate the essence of it all?
Nothingness—his mind went blank . . . there was