A writer is only content twice in their life: When they first think of a story idea and when they receive a check for the book sales.
Unless they’re writing a series; and then it becomes a never-ending Catch-22 of idea beget idea, but it’s needed on page three hundred of book four and not on page ten of the second chapter of book two. That was my life for three years. It was my fault to begin with. I mean, I titled the series “Four Seasons of Love” with the first book called “Autumn Amore”.
Its success was a surprise to me. I mean, what should a sixteen-year-old expect when he submits his manuscript with what must read as a groveling letter to several publishers? One waits in anticipation for two weeks but after not hearing back, one moves on to the second installment: “Winter Wanderlust”. I was only partway through it when I received an e-mail from the publishing house.
I admit, I didn’t want to open the e-mail for the obvious reason: they obviously hated it and would go on a line by line diatribe about how sappy and poetic the writing was and how no one would want to read about happy, go-lucky characters who would never have a rainy day and slept on beds laden with fresh rose petals each morning.
I took a deep breath when I opened the e-mail and waited for my heart to drop into that black pit of despair: “Mr Spencer Logan, Thank you for your submission-”
I could have just stopped reading there as it was the beginning of a form letter I had seen a few times already. Maybe this one would be friendlier. Maybe, they would just say: “we wish you the best of luck to you in the future. Please don’t include us.”
“I loved your work.”

Flash forward and that publisher rode with me through the rocky starts of the first and second book releases, followed by a small book tour. Then, the third book, “Springtime Serenade” dropped onto the masses and for some reason it became immensely popular due to an actress who name-dropped it on Twitter. The first two books were re-released with newer covers that embraced a more sexual context then what was on the pages but, people were buying them, so I had no complaints.

Until a year later.

Three hundred and sixty-six days later and I found myself looking over notepads, scanning outlines, and searching for snippets on my hard drive to try and write the fourth book and nothing was coming to me. Well, that’s not exactly true, things were coming to me but they were not within the same genre, time or planet as my current series. I had, maybe, three pages of an actual story and those three pages were used as the “teaser” on my author’s page. “Read an excerpt from the conclusion of Seasons of Love: A Sweet Summer Song”
I didn’t have writer’s block, more like writer’s brick and mortar wall as I poured all of my ideas into my mental blender and pushed the “purée” button. Several hours later, I had those three pages of description and hyperbole. The words were so syrupy-sweet I felt I would to have a forward written by Wilford Brimley. It came time to step away as I didn’t want to write something just to receive a large royalty check.
I spent time away from my computer and more on my school work and my attempt to get re-acquainted with people my own age: my peers who thought I forgot about them as I took a “vacation” from school for a few months; and by that, I meant I had dropped out to pursue the dream.

My parents were happy with the aforementioned royalty checks but were disappointed that I had quit school to give it all I had. So, we decided I would enroll in classes at the local community college and try for a GED. I was okay with it. My instructor was my former ninth grade teacher, Mr. Reed. He knew everything about me, including my books, as he had to yell at a new crop of students each year to stop reading them and open their textbooks.

“Saw your interview from last month,” He said as he closed the door to the classroom. “They still love your work.”
“I know. It’s incredible.” I replied as we walked down the hallway.
“What’s incredible is that you said ‘flabbergasted’ in an interview.”
“I was caught up in the moment.”
“And how is the last one coming?”
“It’s coming. Not as quickly as I’d like it to though.”
“You got the block?”
“Let’s call it a speed bump.”
“Typical.” Mr Reed commented with a snort.
“I have more ideas in my head than this series, but this is what people want.”
“What do you want?”
We walked out into the blinding light of a Memphis afternoon. It was a day in late June.
“I don’t know. Maybe blood-spurting zombies and a few warriors to go out and kill them.”
“All you’re getting are warriors with girlfriends?”
“More like the zombies are their girlfriends.”
“Could make a great comic book. I hear superheroes are popular again.”
“Please tell that to my publisher.”
“How much of a lease do they have on you?”
“I have four months left to finish the first draft.”
“How far along are you?”
“Read the website?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s just three pages.”
“And now you see the problem.”
“No pressure?”
“Oh no, none at all.”
I thanked Mr. Reed for his support and he thanked me for helping to work on his classroom in the middle of summer. Afterwards I got into my car, started the engine, and felt the thousand-degree rush of hot air blowing into my 1997 Honda Civic.
You may ask, why, if I had all of this money, fame and fortune, why would I drive something so old? The honest answer: it was what I could afford when I started and I planned on running it into the ground before I traded up to something big like maybe a cherry red Mustang convertible with the girl of my dreams in the passenger seat.
The car of my dreams would be easy to acquire.
The girl?
I hadn’t found her around the Memphis area, so maybe a change of venue was in order.

“You’re still coming right?” My dad asked as I sat down in on the sofa in the living room.
Every summer, my parents would take the family and rent a condo on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. We would spend the week being the stereotypical family doing the things that families did while at the beach:
• Going to every seaside seafood schlock shop within a five mile radius of our condo.
• Checking out a dolphin cruise.
• Sight-seeing the forts and lighthouses—for a hefty fee, of course.
• Working on acquiring skin cancer later in life.
My sisters could stay out in the sun all day and come back at the end of the day looking about the same as they left. Me? Red as a lobster and sick as a dog.
In addition, I usually spent a lot of time by myself and would look at the girls from a distance. There were a few that I wanted to approach but I was never sure on their ages or if I looked like I wanted to kidnap them instead of talking to them.
Even after the success of the books, even if I saw one of them reading from a copy, I didn’t know how to use that power to my advantage. The memories of each year, of the times that I tried and failed, haunted me.
They gave me a lot of ideas for fictional storylines, but at the expense of any real life happiness.
This year would be different.
“Yes,” I replied as my sisters poked their heads into the living room. “I mean as long as I have some time to edit at night, I’m fine with going. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.”
I wasn’t going to say that I hoped to find a girl or two to hang out with—but I kind of wanted to. I mean, it was the quintessential teenage dream to walk onto a beach and just see, her. That. Particular. Someone. You know them when you envision your life with them forty years down the road and everything’s sugar and rainbows.
We usually stayed in a small condo but this year, I decided to pay for it…or, I gave my parents the money and the idea to just “go big” and they did by renting an apartment at the Turquoise Place Resort. I thought that I could wake up in the morning, look out at the gulf, smell the sea breeze along with my cup of coffee and breathe in the atmosphere.
One can dream, right?