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 …

Epilogue
The police brought me to the station.  I was quiet, I was sad, and as I walked I stared only at my feet making slow steps. My hand still hurt, but the paramedic had bandaged and cleaned it well. It was sore but no longer dirty. The cuts on my forehead had also been cleaned and bandaged. They didn’t hurt.
Its hard to explain how far my imagination took me when I thought about that tick, and how it had burst on me.
I did look up and not to the ground …

Chapter 10
I was once again snared in the dirty claws of this day. I was confused and uncertain of myself. I lacked confidence as I began to wonder if I had ever had a thought of my own, something that came from me and wasn’t some bullshit rehashing of what everybody else already knew. Did I always have the gift? Were my thoughts someone else’s? And how could I think that? How could I earnestly believe that every thought I had ever had didn’t come from me? It was because …

Chapter 9
Breathe…
She sat, huddled and rocking, on the steps of the Bank of America, and I was across the street from her. She held her face in her hands as she cried. I don’t want it. I don’t want it. Hers was the only thought I had.
Fog fell onto the street, and the light from the streetlamp she sat next to launched a yellow beam that rested its glow around her. The light squirmed as she rocked and cried.
I knew her for myself, from my own intuition, from my heart. …