So here it begins, my novel, Imaginary Bebop.
Chapter 1 – ‘Round Midnight
“He’s a clown.”
But Irwin’s words couldn’t cut the clamor, the hundred mashed-up voices, the heat the smoke the bass and the funk, the song and the singer, the cigarettes the booze the blur and the blues. The bar killed the words, dead in his mouth.
“What?” said Will.
The beat shook spirals in Irwin’s scotch … his sixth.
“A clown, man. A sad clown,” Irwin howled.
Will shook his head.
They sat at the corner table, the one closest to the stage at the …

Enough time has passed. It’s time to tackle Imaginary Bebop.
I read a list of “things writers do” the other day, the type of list that always pisses me off because there is this idea growing like the blob on the Internet that only a set group of people who have conformed to a certain set of behaviors, and bookmark the same blogrolls, could dare call themselves writers. They must always read, always write, always talk about why they write, always suck up to agents on their blogs, follow the same …