There is a robin egg blue Ford pickup truck on my commute that has captured my imagination.

Each morning, I watch the driver going in the opposite direction.

He has put-on weight.

He always has a smile on his round face.

His truck is a reminder of the story I am writing.

The real reward for a fiction writer is to see reality differently. The rabbits follow me. I walk down the dirt road and they come closer.

They know I’m a magician with a wit more cunning than the King of the Leprechauns.

There are ordinary rabbits, and then, the magical variety.

I put myself into my stories, in the same way that painters put themselves into their paintings.

A painting is not a picture. There’s a soul there—or at least, I hope so.

Some primitive people believe that the camera will steal their soul, and

I am inclined to believe them.

I look-at Instagram selfies, and the eyes of those women are vacant.

In a world filled with Mundane Gray existence, I prefer to add color.

We are all writing our stories, regardless if we realize it or not.

So, why not

become a really good fiction writer?

It might just improve your life.