I didn't
mention this in my last post, but I should have. I already am rubbing
elbows with great writers and luminaries. There's Luke Maguire
Armstrong, for one. He's a poet, a travel writer, a songwriter, a
musician, a globetrotter and a humanitarian all balled into one. We went
to college together and bounced our intellects off each other in English class. After college he set out to hitchhike
from Tierra del Fuego to Alaska, but got waylaid in Guatemala, where he
wound up running a children's hospital. In the meantime he penned
several sweet songs on his acoustic guitar (available here;
think Paul Simon meets Cat Stevens); published a book of poems or three;
and wrote many edifying travel articles. He's a core member of The Expeditioner's team and has been a steadfast companion even across thousands of miles.
I also have the privilege to know Olivia J. Herrell,
another burgeoning writer, she of the lyrical prose and boundless
imagination. My friendship with her has been a professional one; both of
us know the agonies and ecstasies of writing, the pains of childbirth
and the joy of creating monsters with our fingertips. She's
been a source of constant support, commiseration, and empathy. I can't
wait to see what happens a few years down the line when we're both
published and still corresponding.
And then there's my own
brother, who called me out of the blue a month or so ago and asked if I
had some time to look at his WIP. Since then we've created a partnership
the like of which has not been seen since J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis
walked the earth. He is an actor by trade, living and working off
Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, and he has taken his lessons in drama
and storytelling to heart. He's been a bottomless pit of advice,
caution, directness, and refreshingly harsh literary criticism. Without
him my pieces would still be heaps of puerile maundering. I would like
to thank him here and now, publicly.
There. I said it. Happy writings, everyone.
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