Off the Wall

…but first, before slippin’ into lit, let me open with this bow.

After thinking should I, shouldn’t I, seemingly a thousand times over, I finally experienced BEA—what I’m calling the best book expo on Earth!!! Contemplating attending really shouldn’t have been a question for someone who’s never been to the grandest book show, but loving the book world much as I do. Yet, in the final hour I decided, what the heck, and went. Paid my dues, grabbed an overnite bag, and man, cavorting and romping in being alone what a marvelous jump BEA turned out to be. Checking-in went seamlessly. The attendants were helpful and friendly. I met publishers and authors, and agents and wholesalers, and best of all was meeting the directors of IBPA—the Independent Book Publishers Association. I’d be all night and a few days explaining the innocuous but fascinating temper that surrounded me. So I’ll drop off here at, Yes, I was in my world!

…just what inspired writing 'Off the Wall'.

While I won’t profess to being ‘the’ custodian of literature, or any sorts thereby, I yet aim to court lit like wind chimes breeze through dens of iniquity. Just like I loved that, I love this...bare-naked at its dead center, a romping good story. Well, and then too, depending on how that wind chime moves one soul, it could stir two, three, four, or as in the case of Atlóta, and others I suppose, it could stir as many as five or more stories in one prose. However, because I can’t profess being ‘the’ custodian of literature, I won’t dare say what lit is not, nor dare disintegrate the good from the bad, the indomitable from the irresolute, the homogeneous from the corruptible, or talk about what ill suits me because there’s only one thing I get from lit, and that’s how it deeply touches the senses. Can’t get your eyes and mind off it, may hope and wish to, but you won’t be able to turn away, remembering its verses for a long time to come, in which we all know we don’t come with the same senses. No pun intended.

I can’t even go along with the notion that in order to be an effectual writer, you must be an ass about reading. My mind’s not infallibly made up on this point yet. And by the way, I’ve always been an ass about reading, but must assume there are fanatical readers who do not write, and vice versa.

Albeit and hearsay, prior to being this nut about writing, I was the absolute nut about reading… biographical World War II, Vietnam War, Holocaust, the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, and a whole lot of true crime books that mostly being. And just beyond that was the Shakespearian, Mockingbird, Dead-eyed Dick lit shoved at me in school. Exposure to this germane material at scathing quantities, coupling on experiences I would come by after leaving my lonely block, amped and armed my senses, and maybe insensibilities, to levels no longer chartable. What I’m saying is when I’m looking for lit, whether reading or writing it, I’m looking for a soul with five or six eyes, a rusty chip on its shoulder, a Bible beneath each arm, in a f-funky good mood wearing tongue-tied shoes, one sock, no pants, and a quilted hat, singing and dancing ‘cause its feeling it.

As I said, I’m not ‘the’ custodian of literature, nor have I, nor had I, any plans to set any records, as even if there is such a record to be set or kept, yet how can I deny courting my world?