When I was 17 years old, I dove into a swimming pool and broke my neck.
Until that moment, I’d been relentlessly active, my days taxed with dread of missing something somewhere. I was on the student council and participated in a wide variety of school clubs. I always secured a part in the school play and rode a unicycle in talent shows. I ran cross-country in the fall, track in the spring and was co-captain of the basketball team in between. I was an honor student who worked full-time in the summer and caddied most weekends in the spring and early fall, except on certain Sundays when I served as an altar boy. I’d never had a drink or a smoke, and I rarely swore. Yet that pleasant summer day, for reasons still unclear to me, I plunged into a six-foot deep above-ground pool and slammed the top of my head on the sloped concrete bottom. Continue reading “Lying Still”
My LA agent had been sitting on my book for a couple of months. I’d gotten no feedback from him, only the studied silence of a poised insect. I decided to breach the stillness and give him a call.
The Phone Call
David: Happy New Year. It’s David.
Agent: Know how many Davids I know?
David: I know my full name shows up on your phone.
Agent: So kill me. What’re you calling me for?
David: Did you read my book yet? Continue reading “Sharks in Coach (Talking about my Novel with my LA Agent)”
I write because I am a prisoner.
I write because there exists, beyond the walls of my preconceptions and just outside the barriers of my inventiveness, another story.
It’s not wholly personal or cultural or factual. It’s not religious or utopian. Nor is it political. It’s all of these things, or some, or none of them. It’s unknown, untold; it’s novel.
I write to discover that new story – the one that will set me free.
My novel is available here: The Last Island