I am still officially out to lunch but you know how it goes when a story gets inside your head and the schizophrenia kicks in. An old photograph comes alive, the landscape shifts, characters start cropping up and voila, The Sharecropper’s Son is conceived.

I have about two thousand (totally fictitious) words written so far and I have no idea how long the story will be. There are no deadlines to meet and though the destination is set, the path is not carved in stone. The only thing I know at this point is that I am excited to let the story tell itself.