It started off as a rough week for writing. I put out a book that had been serialized on the internet about organized crime in Connecticut. This insane, crazy woman named Anna Maria Ferro didn’t like what I wrote about her boyfriend, a mob guy named Grasso that was so crazy his own men killed. She followed me around the net taking cheap shops, which I don’t really care about but then she wrote two nasty reviews for the book on Amazon.
I work hard on these books, hours and hours and hours researching and writing. I get upset and stay upset over these cheap shot cowardly remarks. I least I use my own name when I write.
Anyway, about two weeks ago, I gave two of my books, “No Time to Say Goodbye” and “Short Stories from a Small Town”, to the gardener who gave them to his father. This evening the father called me and introduced himself. He said, “No Time to Say Goodbye” moved him tears and laughter, “once in a while at the same time” and that “Short Stories” made him drive back to his hometown that left in 1955 and think about the people he knew there.
He said “You made me happy. I enjoyed what you wrote”
I have been very poor and very rich in my life. I know the value of a dollar. I’m no one’s fool. But if I were given the choice between ten million cash or keeping what he said “You made me happy. I enjoyed what you wrote”
I would take the words every time. They define my efforts. They recognize a superhuman effort. That’s what good writing is. Money comes, money goes. Believe me. But those words are mine forever and ever. You can’t buy that.