Before I took leave of Miss Dickinson, I asked if she knew what direction I should go to find more writers. She pointed to the right and told me she thought I should take the next tunnel branching left. Buoyed with directions, and hope, or at least a semblance of it, I continued my journey through the warrens of the rabbit hole. Deeper and deeper I wound through the dank cavern.
I saw him bent over an old wooden table before he noticed me. I cleared my throat. "Pardon me..."
He looked up, fountain pen still in hand. “Don't get many visitors down this direction. In a way that's good. Gives me solitude and time to write.”
I studied his face. Angular. A broad brow, made more so by a receding hairline. Warm eyes that saw more than he let on, and a strong mouth that revealed something between a faint smile and serious wisdom. I recognized this man. “I hope my interruption doesn't annoy you unduly.”
“No. No. I need to take a break. I've been going at it for nearly six hours, now.” He laid the pen aside. “It seems you know me, so you have me at a somewhat of a disadvantage.”
I introduced myself, told him I was a writer of sorts, and said, “Could I ask you a question, Mr. Steinbeck?”
“Of course.” The discernment that played about his mouth turned into a wry smile. “Ask away. Like some of my characters I can't promise a completely honest answer.”
“I have a few tales churning around in my head. Sometimes they don’t flow onto the paper. You've written a lot.”
“I wonder if you could tell me where, or how, you get your stories? What do you do to foster the muse?”
“Easy,” he said. “Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I'll have to work on that.”
For a few different ideas, look on my web page: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com . Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….