We all loathe writing about ourselves. Better someone else fall on that knife, right? You know, I say that then I suddenly remember the folks who’ll wax on about themselves all day—as a profession or sheer indulgence. I can assure you that’s not me, although I’ve carried on for three sentences now in avoiding the task at hand. On with it …
T. Nelson Taylor is the author of… Wait, I’m in third-person now? Ugh, never mind. Maybe it’s this aqua-colored draft background that’s got me in a mood. Oops! You folks don’t see it; the stones of Devil’s Tower are in the background. If you look real hard, you might find Larry Butler’s jacket.
Anyway, I pecked my first novel, Dust, in 2009. Crazy idea. This story had been ricocheting off my head for several years, and the economic meltdown meant I had some extra time on my hands. I’ve been a casual follower of neuroscience for decades, including the often-incomplete or insincere jabs at explaining dreams (part of oneirology)—déjà vu, long-term/short-term memory, and other routine anomalies ala cryptomnesia in scientific contexts. This often led down the path to the paranormal or summarily dismissed as a psychological illness. Science is slowly catching up, comedic as that sounds. This is where DUST dwelled—a happy accident with unforeseen consequences.
Now to the sequel.
Um, nope! Bolita came at the insistence of my father, a retired criminology professor and former detective head of Tampa Police Department’s Criminal Intelligence Unit. A friend and detective colleague of my father’s was murdered in cold blood by the mob at his home’s front door in 1975. Many believe it came with the blessings (and possible direction) of the mob’s local underboss, the police chief, and their misguided lackeys. I say misguided because Tampa’s don claimed full ignorance, condemning the act. The fallout was severe—many paid with their lives—but the question of full justice remains to this day. Those in knowledge of the complete story have long since met their maker. Maybe Bolita will inspire others to come forward. Maybe it all needs to go away. Problem is, nobody got over it. How can they?
Now comes To Dust. After what—a 12-year wait? All I can say is: life gets in the way sometimes.
I hope it’s worth your patience. I enjoyed writing it. No spoilers!
Yours,
/T
Oh … me … almost made it out of here without more of those dreaded ellipses editors hate.
Music and legal industries—engineering, performance, editing, graphic arts, and their business. My inspiration to write surfaced during an academic return to the University of South Florida, and a little nurturing from certain literary professors.
You have a story to tell, you sit down, you start to type, words appear on the screen. Many you like, some you don’t, but it doesn’t discourage you. More percussive tapping—a paragraph, then finally a page. You examine it and say to yourself, “Maybe that’s a start.”