Books on a shelf

When I moved from San Francisco to New York City, I stored stuff with my parents. By stuff, I mean books. Sure, I had other mementos but box after box after box contained books. Dad stored them in the attic for a while. He told me I had too many and I needed to get rid of them. 

But I’m a writer, I told him. I need books.

I don’t care, he responded. If I can get rid of my old car magazines, you can get rid of your books.

It didn’t happen. In fact, I got bought more of them. I’d like to think this is why I started writing them, but it’s not true. When I was young, Mom took me to a psychic who told me my future was in being a published author. 

No, I told the psychic. I write movies and plays. 

No, she said. You’ll be writing books.

It turns out she was wrong. I write both.

I’m working out the publishing thing now. You can go to my Amazon page for direct evidence of it.