Why I Love my Editor

Here I sit, looking like the bald-headed biker on a bar stool. Most folks think I’m guarding the bathroom door, so they go outside. Well, it’s all because I’VE BEEN EDITED. I gave her the Hope diamond and get back a glittery tennis bracelet.

NEWS: SONOMA KNIGHT: THE GOAT-RIPPER CASE will be ready for you by Flag Day June 14th. it's a sexy romantic crime thriller set in the heart of wine country. The research was awesome.

GOAT-RIPPER came back from my editor Temma et.al. and it’s been lipo-suctioned without sedatives. Reduced to a filth-grade reading level (ok, 10th grade) but IT SINGS ANGELIC NOW. My virgin queen returned a tawdy tart called art vox populi. I love her little scar and sundry orchid tattoos. We waltz a one-armed lalapalooza.

Every Papa gets growing pains. Mine start in both big toes and end with a headache. Drugs are no help; I favor dregs.

I cried at her ripped bodice and soiled slippers. She lost her tidy whities in the undergrowth. When the clock chimed midnight, her Venetian carriage popped a pumpkin and my bodkin splattered a wall painter’s T-shirt.

Frick if this biker didn’t weep. No sleep. I needed a nap before I could paint on a brave new face for the human race.

So whadda-ya-get? GOAT-RIPPER is a slam dunk three-point outside shot with lotsa air. Warning to Air Jordan. Steph Curry and me be hanging with Buster Posey for Inspiration Ah Hum.

We’re in it ALL THE WAY. GURL-POSSE and GUT-CHECK will be e-book ready by Turkey Day so you can wallpaper your loved ones for Xmas. I have a goal. It keeps me out of jail.

We’ve yanked the anchor to set sail out back the badlands like the motorcycle mol on Highway One Neil Young sings about. We have motion; we have Ocean. Leave your life vest off and jump into life, feet forward, ass hanging out.

I love this writer’s life. Sink or swim, we pay coin at River Stix no matter the condition we’re in.

Huzzah, Barkeep, make mine a triple latte Kenya Gold, double dollop whipped cream and dash the Malagasy vanilla. Set 'em up for my writer friends all round. We have writing to do.

Come join my tribe. We wear feathers and howl at the moon. Dance barefoot and delight plant and animal kingdoms. We line dance in concentric circles to bongo drums.

Cue orchestra, Bolero, if you please. Play Come & Go Blues at interlude. Free popcorn. I swear to champion life and love my neighbor until my last full stop. Then please have me re-printed, re-covered and re-issued. I oath genre-bending until I wear out my britches.

I accept this writer’s fate and wish for but one more life to give my readers. No blindfold. No cheroot. Fire at will.

I shall be reborn with 26 new characters tomorrow. You bet. SEMPER FRICKIN’ FRY. Jake Knight reminds me, I’m a writer and anything can happen.