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     In twelfth grade, I was given the assignment to write something that would excite the reader. I wrote "Faster Please."  My teacher wrote in red pen that it was great writing but not to show it to anyone for fear of getting us both in trouble. My career path got detoured and for the past 28 years, I have been interviewing people, sorting out their predicaments they got into through personal betrayal, jealousy, dishonesty and poor judgment.


     I hated my job but loved interviewing people. When I got near the end, my wife reminded me of the story I showed her in twelfth grade. She said she knew then I was going to be a writer someday.


     So here I am, just as you may be one day, considering writing or at least reading a novel. The experience is like nothing else, except waiting for a child to be born. You will be tortured and perplexed about how you are going to complete this journey you have decided to embark on. But in the end, when the nurse brings you the baby, the one with the waxed color cover and your name on the front, will you truly feel immortal and have justified your existence.

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