hen I was 7 years old, in 1964, my family was able to move out of the projects into a mystical old house. Mr. Davies, the previous occupant, left many wonderful things behind. It had a diamond-shaped stained glass window, a roll top desk full of cubbies, a library full of old tomes, secret compartments in the closets and cellar, drawers full of parts and gizmos, ancient newspapers in the attic, old baseball bats and gloves, a player piano, and what looked like an Exorcist’s portable ritual box in the basement. Most importantly, there was a fabulous metal typewriter that sat on a high, rolling iron stand with wheel-locking pedals. I wrote my first story, The Zany Zoo Lion by Richard Alan Scott, about a lion that escapes the zoo only to join a circus, the day after we moved in. I’ve been writing and scheming ever since. For years, I’d spend hours shooting hoops in my backyard, daydreaming about my next movie or novel. If a neighborhood playmate happened along to join me while in this zone, I was thoroughly disappointed to have to begrudgingly end my reverie. Continue reading →

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