It’s an exciting and interesting time to have titles out. For the first time this year, e-book sales have usurped the sales of printed books. I like what’s happening now, with the writer walking his or her own path, as opposed to relying on traditional publishing, which is still great in my opinion. As long as I’m writing full time I don’t care if they publish it on the surface of tampon. As long as the music plays, the coffee or the glass of good red waits and the keys keep getting tapped, tapped, tapped. That’s the reward.
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We drove through the streets of Los Angeles. 8 a.m. During my wait for his dismissal I had consolidated my things into one backpack. I had three days of clothes with me. Everything else was expendable. The streets were bright and colored with tags and ghetto art. Even the litter in the streets had a feel to it, the wonder of possibility. The bums and the prostitutes and the cops, the gangs and the old and even the cars looked like they were in scene. He pointed out corners, pointed out schools and history. It was warm there. The old rooming houses stood proud and ugly. His dashboard was cracked, and the lines of the cracks were thick with smoke. He lit another off the butt of his last, tossed it and got a red light. I looked to my right and stared into the eyes of a crack whore. “Want me to suck it, baby doll?” “No.” He laughed behind the wheel. She shrugged and walked off. “No,” he said.
Jeff Stewart 