The Return

Well, I took a couple months off but I am back again.  Though my following is small, I seem to have one at least so I thank the readers. At least there's some people interested in the ramblings of an amateur and heretofore unsuccessful author.  But hopefully that will come to an end soon. After receiving no positive responses from prospective literary agents regarding my novel, I decided to take matters into my own hands and the past two months were consumed by that effort.

One may be inclined to ask: What does this schmuck mean by taking matters into his own hands?

By that, I mean I was granted an opportunity experienced by few others in this field.

Toward the end of September, I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps in my downstairs. By the time I realized the source of my stirring the steps were already coming up my staircase which terminated right outside my bedroom door.  I stretched out my right hand to see if my wife was still in bed with me and she was so there was some anxiety stood up and grabbed two spherical paper weight made of solid marble. I stood their like a pitcher on the mound - if pitchers on the mound held two balls instead of just one - prepared to hurl these objects at the first sign of an intruder.

Then, the door opened.

But the figure in my doorway posed no danger and I felt this once I encountered his presence. I didn't throw the balls at him but I didn't let go of them either.  He spoke English in a thick Italian accent.  It was Virgil.Virgil, the epic poet. Virgil, composer of the Aneid.  Virgil, the man who led Dante through the afterlife in his Divine Comedy. And this time, he wanted me. Of course, I went with him.  If this man can get me to Hell, I thought.  It'd be a perfect place to succumb to the Devil's bargain and exchange my eternal soul for talent and fame...after all, it worked for Robert Johnson, and he didn't even go to Hell to see the great bargainer himself.  Mr. Johnson just sat there at the crossroads until the Devil came up and tuned his guitar.

He died just a few years later. Poisoned by his old lady.

My trip down to the inferno wasn't nearly as dramatic as the great Dante's.  It did have its moments, like seeing three tombs reserved for Ted Cruz, John Boehner, and Mitch McConnell.  But I digress.

I never got down far enough to meet the Chief.  I understand he was preparing a banquet for the Tea Party Express...overseeing it personally, or would it be "anti-angelically"?  I don't know.  But when Virgil brought me back, I wondered what the point of the journey was. The next morning, I understood.

The journey was a means for inspiration.  An inspiration I shall be recording here with my next posts.  Stay tuned.