Tomorrow becomes the day that the figurative feet get put to the literal prayers: I will be firing the very first salvo in the journey to write a book. A novel. A farce. An existential comedy. A real humdinger of an idea.

I once read a (now forgotten title) book that was a guide to the writing process. It had one idea that has never left me for one minute.

Imagine you have been given the task of trying to describe a town. Not a special town, just any boring old bit of static suburban cross -section.

One could start with a particular street. Not a bad idea. One could start with a building.

Or better yet, start describing A particular BRICK in the building, and then pan out from there. Before you know it, you’ve widened your descriptive iris and you have quite a picture painted.

Well, this is where I am. Studying the Crossroads–the one at which Bluesman Robert  Johnson supposedly cut a Faustian deal for his prodigious guitar skills.

But I’m not going to describe the roads. I’m going for something smaller.

And ultimately, for something much bigger . . .