The Writing Life

I was crossing 9th Avenue in New York City one morning, along with a few other people, including the older woman who was in front of me. Memory tells me that she appeared to be in her 60s and had wispy, mud-brown hair with some gray streaks in it. She may have had on a sweater or a coat, and a dress underneath.  I believe she may have carried at least one shopping bag in addition to a purse. But there was no mistaking, she walked with a cane. As the small group of us moved across the street, a taxi cab made a left turn from 42nd Street in front of us—well, in front of the her. It passed right in front of her, and yet, I never had the impression that she was in danger of getting hit. Still, it made her angry, and understandably so. As the cab passed in front of her, she took her can in whacked the bumper with it! On a different day, in the same general area of Times Square, yet another older woman walked in front of me. I’m not as clear in my mind about what she looked li...

Like poems, characters usually present themselves to me straight out of the scenes in my life. I've got one or two trying to take shape in the mist of my imagination, but most are composites of people I've known or at least seen. Sometimes you just see someone who looks unusual, o who's acting crazy and you just know they would come to life again even more in one of your stories. In my case, one such individual, who has become the protagonist in a novella I'm working on, crossed my path one evening when my husband and I were having dinner with friends from out of town. We met our friends at their hotel in the heart of Hollywood, and decided to dine in the hotel's rooftop restaurant. Everything was great, we had ordered our meal and were in the throes of catching up, when I noticed a man out of the corner of my eye.  A man of color, with dark brown skin to be exact, stood near the doorway of the dining room. He was small of stature and very well dressed. But ...