This is my seventh self-published novel. I believe it’s my best. How many novels have I written? More than that. And how many stories? Countless. That includes the story I labored over for hours and weeks and months after long working days as an accountant. Finally finished, I bundled the pages into my motorcycle bag and drove them home to my then-wife. However, I forgot to fasten the buckle on my saddlebag, and the papers blew all over I-5 in Portland. That was probably for the best.

I hate to call it writer's block, because extended, incapacitating writer’s block is incompatible with the role of the professional writer (my income depends on my productivity). However, momentary blockage is normal and expected. Experienced writers don’t eliminate writer’s block; they design around it.

For two years, without success, I had been trying to produce a cinnamon roll that was soft, smooth and cuddly like a new puppy. But instead of getting a chewy, moist bakery roll, I kept getting something like a supermarket roll that seemed a little coarse and even dry – more like an old dog than a puppy.

Jackson rolled over and sighed. The sun beat in through the window, striking him across the eyes. He turned away from the window and toward the bedside table, where his precious Darlingtonia californica sat in her bed of sphagnum moss, waiting patiently for a wayward insect to come her way. The sunlight glistened on Darling’s spindly stalks, with their bulbous heads that reared up like swollen cobras. They were beautiful and sensual and deadly.

Now, Rich’s number one rule is no magic – and that includes curses and even innocent little tricks, but I remembered having some red stool in my younger days when I was really hooked on Indian cuisine, so the next day I marinated a big batch of chicken in Tandoori paste with a lot of extra red food coloring and baked it up for dinner.  We all pooped red bricks for two days.