Monday, September 30, 2013


The Adventures of Edwin D Ferretti, Author

Part five


On the drive home I couldn't shake the feeling that this task I'd been assigned wasn't gona be a cake walk. The whole concept of portals to another world sounded ridiculous. However, I'm a writer and have doors in my mind that I can open with a thought; I imagined the possibilities and asked myself what if portals existed. The term Ink Pen sounded familiar; I'd either read a book with a similar name or seen the movie. 

After securing the car for the night I went to my kitchen and warmed up a cup of my favorite hot brew, grabbed two Twinkies from the shelf and went to the front room. I turned on my ten-inch Teak reel-to-reel and set the volume low. The sounds of the thirties and forties filled in the background. Sitting in my chair with my feet on the coffee table I opened Cindy's diary.

The first page of the diary was dated a year before Cindy took the job of managing the library. In two days time she and her sister were going to perform a newly discovered sonata called süße Träume (Sweet Dreams), written for piano, violin, two violas and a cello, by Beethoven. The yellowed newspaper clippings, glued to the page, proclaimed the concert a success. After thirty minutes of reading I realized that I was looking at Chattertown through her eyes. I skimmed ahead until I reached a page written in bold red ink. The page screamed at me.

Damn you father. How dare you treat Cynthia and me as your personal slaves? I know it was you that caused mother to disappear from our lives. Some of the letters of the last sentence flowed down the paper; placing my fingers lightly on the page, I experienced Cindy's tears falling from her face. My mood changed from curious to sad. I entered a note into my tape recorder to ask Cynthia about this page; the words slaves and disappearance of their mother bothered me. I stood and laid Cindy's diary on the coffee table. Something in the kitchen was calling my name and I headed in that direction.

I knew what was in the cabinets; nothing nourishing. Checking the refrigerator I found the makings for a ham, lettuce and tomato sandwich.  Come to think about it, I live out of my refrigerator; no wonder I'm as skinny as a nail. I need a reason to get out more. Cindy's image filled my mind. Pouring a tall glass of Ginger Ale I sat down at the small table and had a stingy dinner. A ripe pear and blue cheese filled in for desert.

 A whistling noise drew my attention back to the living room. Opening the kitchen door I stood in awe. A whirling collection of colors filled my view, yet nothing of mine was flying around.  Soft giggling and laughter assaulted my ears. This is a happy thing, but what's it doing in my house and who's laughing? Something told me this was connected with Cindy. Gathering my courage, I walked to my chair and sat down. Moving my hand in front of me left a trail of colors; my mood swung from sad to happy. The pages of the diary began to turn, stopping halfway through the book at another page written in red ink. Something smacked me hard on the back of my head and I heard a dull thud on the carpet behind me. My hands flew up and covered my ears. Lilting voices filled my mind; "Read it and see it," they shouted.

"Read and see what," I shouted back. Raising my head I watched the colors vanish, leaving me dazed and wondering what just happened. Was Cindy showing me that portals exist? Read it must refer to her diary. With trembling fingers I set the diary on my lap, tilted it up and began reading.

Two days ago Cynthia and I found father's study door open. We couldn't find him anywhere so we both entered and looked around. Books of magic covered every table and chair in the room. Hand drawn charts were drawn on the painted walls and the ceiling depicted a series of stars and planets that weren't in our galaxy. (See envelope in the back of the book for pictures). An arrow pointed to a planet with three moons circling around it. Above the arrow was written a word that froze my blood; Rachel, our mother's name.

Cindy and I looked everywhere for anything like our fathers' diary, notes, and pictures but found none. Not only was he gone so was everything that had any personal connection to his life.

Cindy was the one who found it; inside the large Victorian Armoire. Behind the doors was a swirling portal. I threw a book into it and a second later it was gone from our sight. Gone where? I don't know and this frightened me. We shut the doors and agreed never to open it again. We were now alone, Cynthia, I and our black cat Bast.

The words chilled me. I felt their desperation and it consumed me.
 "Meow!" The loud cry scared me to death. My hands shook; the diary slipped from their grip. Sitting in front of me was a black cat. This can't be Bast? If this is Bast how did she get here? My mind was filled with questions; questions that only Cynthia knew the answers to.
"Meow—purr." After feeding the cat I carried her and the diary to the car and returned to Cynthia's house. Honestly I thought my heart was gona jump out of my chest. The door open and the cat walked into the home.

"Bast!" Cynthia scooped her up into her arms. I felt lightheaded. This can't be happing to me.







Written words on paper—mean nothing if they aren't complete.

However, a good fantasy book tells the whole story.


To be continued.

Thursday, September 26, 2013

The Adventures of Edwin D Ferretti, Author

Part four.


Stepping inside the house I walked back in time into the Victorian era. The long hallway extended to a pair of glass doors leading to the back yard, two hundred feet away. The paneled walls were done in light stained oak as was the arched ceiling. Two sweeping staircases on both sides of the hallway led to the second floor. Three chandeliers were evenly spaced down the hallway. Cynthia led me to two large oaken doors and slid them apart. She stood aside as I entered into a room that was twice the size of my home.

"This is the sitting room. Cindy and I enjoyed many hours of reading books and playing music together. Did you know that she was a gifted violinist?" I shook my head and she pointed to one of two large matching settees.

To my right was a large fireplace and opposite that stood four glass-door book cases; almost as tall as the eight foot ceiling. Behind the settee facing me stood a full Grand Piano. A music stand stood next to the piano and on a chair rested a violin case, waiting to be opened. The walls were covered with large oil paintings and the ceiling had a reproduction of Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam as seen in the Sistine Chappell,  God's eyes moved as I stared at him. I blinked and looked again; God was once again fixated on Adam's extended finger. Large pastel colored handmade rugs covered the polished oak floors.

 I hadn't noticed Cynthia's absence until she returned with a large silver tray filled with small sandwiches, salad, coffee, cookies and china. She placed it on the round marble topped table in front of the fireplace.

"You look like a man who hasn't had a proper meal in decades; broad shoulders, tall and handsome but skinny as a nail." She had me pegged to a tee. I grinned and followed her pointing finger. The food was delicious and filling. We both took our coffee black and sat together on the couch.

"I don't believe that Cindy is dead. I think that she stepped through a time portal and can't find the way back." I'd never heard words like that before but my writer's mind quickly accepted the possible reality of it.

"What do you base this theory on?" She stood and walked to a series of built in drawers and returned with a black leather covered book.

"This is Cindy's diary and in it she tells all. I have been waiting for someone to read it and help me bring my sister back." She handed it to me. "Please don't share this with anyone and return it once you've read it." I agreed and opened the book. Page after page of delicate feminine handwriting flowed across each page.

"Why me, and how did you know about my encounter with Cindy?"

She smiled, "Vick is a personal friend and informs me of any new developments about the disappearance of my sister. Besides Cindy often visits me and fills me in on what's happing where she's trapped." She stood with fire in her eyes. "It's all our father's fault that Cindy is gone," she yelled. Then she collapsed on the settee, tears flowing down her face. I consoled her as best that I could. I went to the fireplace and brought back several tissues. They became soggy and I started to cram them inside a pocket when Cynthia's hand grabbed mine. Her moist red eyes locked on my face.

 "Cindy chose you because she said that you were a living Ink-pen." My eyes opened wide.

"An Ink-pen, what did she mean?"

"She told me that you are gifted and once you connect with her anything that you write about her will happen, but not on Earth. You have the talent to bring her back with words!" Bring her back with words.

"If the answers are inside her diary then I'll do everything in my power to help her return. I want to meet her in the flesh." Cynthia smiled at me.

"She did tell me she liked you." My face blushed.

"The next foggy night I will be locked inside the library. If she shows I'll learn all about her situation." Cynthia smiled again and stood.

"Thank you Mr. Ferretti, time for you to get to work. Read the diary and make your own decision about her fate."

"David, please call me David. I'll begin reading it tonight." The heart-cadence once again danced happily across my chest.



"Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration,

the rest of us just get up and go to work." 

                                           ~ Stephen King










To be continued.




Tuesday, September 24, 2013


The Adventures of Edwin D Ferretti, Author

Part three.



The next morning I was up early, thinking about the three interviews and what their connection could be. In a way I understood the library; after all it was her life's work. But why return from the dead to stop her milk delivery and what about her still wanting her black evening gown. A dull thud sounded on the front door; the morning paper arrived.

Nuking a cup of yesterday's was identified by many names, java, mud, hot-brew, jamoke and even coffee. I sat in the front room and perused the paper. What's this, another sighting of Cindy made the front page. Her picture occupied one quarter of the broad sheet. She was dressed almost identical to Cheryl Snide, only her dress and shoes were forest green. Cindy's hair was in a bun with slender ripples of hair falling down her cheeks; like a Greek goddess. She looked like a lady who was happy and in charge of her life. A prickling feeling caressed my body; her eyes were looking directly at me.

After a quick read of the article I dismissed it as a publicity stunt. The longtime local sisters, Stephanie and Marcie Cruthers, who reported seeing her, were made up names. This was followed by more rubbish; Mrs. Stella Perkins had Shelly Kyle and Thelma Thompson over for tea and cake. Farmer Hanks lost three chickens to an unknown animal...the list went on.

Sipping my coffee I mulled over the three connections again, science fiction/fantasy/magic books, milk and her dress. It made no sense to me. The weather section predicted no fog for the next three days. I needed more information on Cindy and decided to pay a visit to the town's records office; you know, birth certificate, will, deeds to property; anything that could shed more light on this mystery. With pen and a new notebook in hand I headed to the City Hall. The answers I found added more confusion to my investigation.

As soon as I mention Cindy's name the clerk pointed to a table and returned with a container containing all of her official documents. It was sad in a way; the carton was the size of a cigar box. Inside I found copies of paperwork that defined her life and supposed death. Cindy's birth certificate showed she was born in Chattertown and she was twenty-three years old when she disappeared. She is a year younger than I am. I found some local historians notes that said that her parents moved away shortly after Cindy was hired to administer the library.

I stopped reading for a minute and took notes; Cindy's father was a world renowned magician who went by the stage name of Dressa the Black. Could this be the reason that Cindy was looking for books on magic? Another strange thing on her birth certificate jumped out; her father was listed as John C. Crawl however, her mother was Cynthia Spelling; the name had an asterisk next to it but nothing to reference back to it. I jotted a note to myself to check out her mother.

The final piece of paper that I looked at was her Last Will and Testament. She left everything to her twin sister, Cynthia Spelling! Surely a mistake had been made concerning her mother. Returning the documents to the clerk I asked, "Do you have anything on Cynthia Spelling?"

The clerk typed the name into her computer and hit the enter key. "You have a very inquisitive mind Mr. Ferretti. You are the first person to ask—

The computer screen locked onto the name. "Oh my," was all she said as she turned the monitor in my direction. Cynthia Spelling was living in Cindy's old house at 1239 Sycamore Drive. I quickly wrote down the address and thanked the clerk.

 Hurrying home I entered the garage. Sitting in the front seat of my 1985 corvette I typed the address into my Magellan. Cynthia's house was five miles outside the town. My car roared to life and I backed out of the garage. A few minutes later I took a right on Sycamore Drive. Fruit trees lined both side of the drive; apples on the left and pears on the right. I passed fields with cherries, plumbs and grapes then a lone house stood out. Turning into the driveway I came to a halt by the large front porch. The only thing that reminded me of a cul-de-sac was the driveway; it curved around in front of the house and back to Sycamore Drive.

The house was three stories high in the early Victorian style; tall Greek columns supported a screened in porch. The front door must have been eight feet tall. A large Egyptian style door knocker announced my presence. I heard soft footsteps approaching the door; for some strange reason my heart began to drum another cadence on my chest. The door knob turned.

"Hello may I help you?" Her green eyes danced like a flickering flame. My mouth opened wide...standing in front of me was Cindy...wearing a blue dress and heels. "Yes, what can I do for you?" My mouth snapped shut.

"Cindy?" I said. Her face paled then brightened.

"Cindy was my sister. I'm Cynthia. Did you know my sister?"

"Only by a chance encounter: outside of Vick's Cafe." She opened the door.

"Please come in Mr. Ferretti. We have a lot to discuss.




To stretch your imagination might hurt.


To read through someone else's minds-eye; painless.












To be continued.




Saturday, September 21, 2013


The Adventures of Edwin D Ferretti, Author

Part two.

Scroll down to read part one.



The next day I visited the local newspaper and looked up articles concerning Cindy's strange disappearance. I had to find out more, and my notebook was beginning to fill up. She was last seen alive on a Thursday evening seven years ago. Friday morning the library failed to open and the sheriff was contacted. He put out a state alert then expanded it nationally. Cindy had simply vanished along with her black cat called Bast. The secretary placed another file box beside me. I noted the faded label, The Ghost of Cindy Crawl, keep the legend alive.

"Ya see Mr. Ferretti, Cindy's disappearance and reported ghostly sightings are a big tourist attraction around these parts." She smiled at me with a blasé expression. An hour later I'd consumed the contents of the box; coming away with three names of witnesses who reported they had seen and spoken to Cindy: Phyllis Wheeler the local seamstress, Bill Cruthers the milk man and Cheryl Snide, the town's new librarian.

I decided to talk to them in order of closeness. Phyllis' shop was on the corner of Main Street and Victor Avenue, only two blocks from the newspaper office.  The door chime announced me as I entered the sewing shop. Phyllis was in her mid forties, had a short build and walked with a walking stick; result of an auto accident several years back.

"Good morning David, I didn't know that you had anything that needed sewing, you always look so dapper." I grinned at her and thanked her for the compliment.

"I would like to ask you some questions concerning your ghostly encounter with Cindy Crawl."

"I'd be glad to answer your questions. How about some coffee and one of my famous scones? We can talk in my office." I nodded my head and followed her to the back of the store.

"Now what is it that you want to ask me?"

"Would you relate every detail that you can remember about your encounter? I can record it on my tape recorder." I turned it on and placed it on the table.

"Well let me see...oh yes, it was three years ago this month and I was just closing the shop when I heard the door open. Cindy was standing there in her red dress, looking like a fashion queen. My mouth fell open then she spoke; not directly to me, but I understood every word. "Is my new black evening dress altered yet?" She left it here to be taken in you see. I asked her where she has been for the past four years but she didn't answer. She turned and began to dissolve in front of the door. She spoke one more time before vanishing. "Don't sell it; I'll be back for it someday." I almost had a heart attack. What do you suppose she meant by don't sell it; I'll be back..." I hunched my shoulders.

"Is that all that you can remember? What time was it in the evening?"

"The same time every night, six PM. I do remember it was fogy like last night and chilly when the wind blew." I picked up the tape recorder and turned it off.

"Do you still have the dress?" She walked to the back of the store and returned with a black dress inside a protective plastic cover.

"After my encounter with her I had the dress dry-cleaned and have it in the back. Just in case mind you."

"Thank you for your time."

"Oh, will I be in your next book?" I assured her that if I used the name Phyllis that it would be her I was referring to. My next stop was at the local Milk Factory behind the fire station. Bill Cruthers had delivered milk for as long as he could remember. His father and grandfather were both in the milk delivery business. His answers surprised me.

"Cindy stood there in her red dress and I was dumfounded. She didn't answer any of my questions concerning her disappearance, only wanted to tell me to stop delivering her milk; said she'd be back someday and simply dissolved away into thin air. It was a night like last night, foggy and cold." My head lifted, foggy and cold, like last night, that's the second time I've heard that. I thanked him and walked over to the library. Cheryl Snide was in her mid thirties and dressed like the librarians of the 30/40's. Long sleeved blouse, ruffles in front with buttons up to her neck, brown skirt and Chelsea flats. A pair of large spectacles covered her eyes.

"I can't wait until your book comes out. Why, I've a list of readers a mile long waiting to read it. Now what can I do for our towns famous author?"

"Would you tell me of your encounter with Cindy Crawl?"

"I'd be glad's happened more than one you know. The first time scared me most to death; I mean seeing someone you know just disappear in front of you eyes. After she vanished I was called in to take over her duties. A year later the town hired me full time. We're now in the computer age and we're the only library for miles that checks out digital books to library members. Now where was I, Cindy first appeared shortly after I took over, about six years ago. It was late and I was shutting off the lights when I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Cindy stood by the main door in a red dress, almost as if she was going out on a date. I didn't know what to say or think; just stood staring at her. She spoke... "How is my library? Are there any new fantasy books; especially ones about the origin of magic?" I was dumfounded and at a loss of speech. My mouth moved but nothing came out. Cindy asked the same questions a second time then I found my voice. I assured her that we were ordering new books in all the time, told her about you and the fantasy books that you were writing and she smiled then dissolved away into thin air. Come to think about it, I see her every time there is fog in the air. She was here last night and went to look at the fantasy and magical occult books. I told her I was locking up for the night and she had charge of her library. I swear, sometimes I have to pinch myself to see if it is really happening."

"What you are saying is that every time there is fog in town, Cindy appears." She nodded her head. "Would you permit me to stay past closing the next time we have a foggy day?"

"Of course," she reached over to her counter and retrieved her card. "Call me when you want to come over and I'll lock you in. Of course you'll have to remain the entire night because we have a burglar alarm connected to the Sheriff's office." I nodded my head, thanked her and returned home.


Reading in the dark, is not bright.

Reading under a light; just right!





To be continued.



Thursday, September 19, 2013


The Adventures of Edwin D Ferretti, Author

It was only four thirty in the evening and the fog lay heavy in Chattertown. I trudged down Main Street headed for Vick's Cafe for a warm cup of coffee, and to eavesdrop on conversations, dialects and character gestures. That's what I do. I'm a writer and take my inspiration from the locals in this quaint southern Tennessee town.

A figure lurched out of the grey vapor in front of me, we exchanged glances and then he was gone. Jake Hammer. He was hammered all right probably got tossed out of Pake's Bar and Grill and on his way home. Last week our local Sheriff, Tom Cranston, found him in Tinker Bell Park, curled up on a bench. If he'd taken a right instead of a left he would have walked into his front door.

A cool breeze pulsed down Main Street and I zipped up my jacked. And that's when I caught a view that made my pulse beat faster; the bottom of a red dress clinging tightly to a pair of legs sheathed in black that would turn a crazy man sane. The fog hid the rest of her features and my mind went into overload thinking of the possibilities. Who is this amazing creature? Why haven't I seen her before or am I dreaming? Can I use her in my next book? After pinching myself I realized that the vision was real.

My heart drummed a loud cadence on my chest and I quickly sidestepped closer to the storefronts; not wanting to share this experience with anyone. I stood on the corner of Divine and Main . Vick's Cafe was on the opposite side of the street. Stepping off the curb I heard a soft sexy voice ahead of me say—

"Soon, how long is soon?" As I drew closer to the cafe gorgeous came into view—wow! Long curly red hair tumbled down both sides of her face and back; her deep green eyes sparkled and laughed at me. Tall and slender she was—with curves in all the right places. The red dress was cut deep in the front dropping down to her black stocking covered legs terminating in a sexy pair of red heels. I immediately named it the Aphrodite dress; one that hinted at and at the same time hid her sexuality. Her right arm raised and pointed at me.

"Soon, how long is soon. I must know." Her voice sounded a thousand miles away.

"Soon," I repeated.

"You are Edwin D Ferretti the third, author of The Darkside of the Medallion, aren't You?"

"Guilty as charged." I answered. "What do you mean by soon?"

"I want a copy and all you say on your blog is it will be available soon." I breathed a sigh of relief and managed a weak smile.

"The book is at the publishers and they are converting it to different formats for everyone who owns an eBook reader, computer, tablet or smart phone to be able to enjoy it. Once they send me a proof copy and I approve it they'll send it to Amazon and the other major book distributors. You know my name what's yours?" She brushed off my question just as easy as swatting a fly off her arm.

"Everything you mentioned is oblong not curved. I live in a cul-de-sac. Will I never be able to read you masterpiece?"

Cul-de-sac and curved It made some weird and wonderful sense to me. This woman was like a twisted sister, one that I could spend eternity plus a day with. "If you own a computer you can order it at Amazon dot com. If not, then after it's published I'll print off a copy for you. She smiled, turned and vanished back into the fog. "Hey, what's your name?" I yelled into the mist. I strained my ears but only heard a dull cadence. With strength of mind I pushed open the door and entered Vick's Bar. Vick walked up to me.

"Hi David, are you all right?"

"What do you mean Vick?"

I was looking out the window and saw you with your back to the door talking to the fog."

"I was speaking to the most beautiful and sexy woman that I've ever seen." Vick stopped for a minute then looked me in the face.

"Long red hair, red dress, black stockings and red heels." I nodded my head; the drum in my chest beat faster.

"What's her name? I must meet her again."

"Her name is Cindy Crawl. She was our local librarian. One day about seven years ago she failed to show up for work. The Sheriff' looked for her for over a year then placed her file in the cold case drawer. Several of our towns' people claimed that they saw and spoke to her then she vanished before their eyes."

"I'll have a cup of your darkest coffee; something I need to think about. Cindy Crawl, I spoke to her then she vanished. Where will this story lead me? I took out my notebook and pencil and began taking notes.


If I had known how hard it was to edit my book,

I would have done that first, and then written it.







To be continued.















Sunday, September 15, 2013

To creep into the unknown; scary!
To let a fantasy book take you there; smart.

Saturday, September 14, 2013

To sit beneath a tree with nothing to do is lazy.
To read a good book beneath a tree's shade, heavenly.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


To publish a single word is absurd.
To write a book that people enjoy, pure genius.


Edwin D Ferretti III
"Man consists of body, mind and imagination. His body is faulty, his mind untrustworthy, but his imagination has made him remarkable."

John Masefield (1874-1967), English writer.
No matter what genre you write on paper all writers' boast a common bond; a creative mind that's overflowing with amazing and fanciful stories. Our mind can store and retrieve information such as when we answer a test question or remember a birthday. Non-writers don't question this ability; as long as they have a mental input that they can draw on and retrieve when needed.

A writer's mind is different and contains doors that a normal person wouldn't think to knock on. Writers not only knock they force open those doors to answer questions such as what if. As we begin to write a story, we discover that these doors, once opened never close. Like Rod Sterling's Twilight Zone series, writers can draw on and use their conceived story of sight, sound and imagination to take their readers on a journey and let them engage in action/adventure in the distant future or mingle with Cleopatra in the past.

What is imagination from a writer's perspective? I could give you a dictionary answer: Ability to visualize (what if), the creative part of the mind (what if and inventive), individual resourcefulness or creative acts that take what if and bring your story alive, real and believable for your readers. My answer would include all the above and more.  

Imagination allows us to experience the future, peek into the past or travel light-years to a distant planet with an alien presence. For me, this process begins with what if I could...or what if my protagonist did this. In the above paragraphs, we have the beginnings of a writer's special tool kit. I say special because this tool kit doesn't contain a computer, books on writing, paper, pencils or writing groups/friends. It contains our working mind, a lot of what ifs and an audacious imagination. Proper use of these basic resources let us open the physical tool kit and begin writing our story.    

Writers use their mind to conceptualize a great story, one that their readers can't put down until the last word is absorbed into their own minds. Have you ever asked yourself why readers gravitate toward several different science fiction/fantasy authors, instead of any science fiction/fantasy author? Why don't they just close their eyes, grab a book off the SiFi/Fantasy shelf and read it? My mind asked me that very same question a few years ago. I realized that I didn't have an overabundance of correct answers. I harbored the common conceptions after reading the first chapter; the plot was to slow (boring), to many points of view (confusing), scenes were disjointed/jerky or just unbelievable and poor use of dialogue. On the other hand, the authors that I liked to read rated these comments: this author knows how to move his or her or her story along with what if/imaginative action-filled scenes, or I like the way this author's characters interacted with each other pushing the story toward an unforgettable ending. My favorite is, the story line allowed me to exit my reality and enter the world created by the author, sympathize with the main characters and dream of being a hero.  

The question you should ask yourself is how can what if and imagination help you construct an overwhelming story. The answer is simple; what if opens the door to unlimited possibilities, and imagination allows you to explore new and creative ways to design your story.

Here is an example of what I'm writing about. Suppose an author (a-hum) asks, what if there is a fifth dimension, and then incorporates it into his story.

A fifth dimension, a normal/non-writer might ask. I only know of three dimensions, width, length and height. Where did the fourth dimension spring from...much less a fifth one; this is unbelievable?  

Remember what I said above about the what if question opening a door where your imagination can take over. Doing a little research our author discovered that some scientists speculate that in addition to the three dimensions listed above a fourth dimension exists that is a mirror image of our reality. A light bulb illuminates in our writer's mind. Our intrepid author walks boldly through the unlocked door—and suddenly realizes if a mirror image of our reality exists, then there must be a greater force that prevents this fourth dimension from becoming our reality. Taking this a step further, our brave author explores more of the room that he unlocked and asks another question. What can I do with the dimension that I have dreamed up to enhance my story? A voice enters his mind...don't enter the fourth dimension because you'll break the universe; use the fifth dimension as a faster way to teleport to a specific destination. I frequently hear voices urging my protagonist in different directions. Does this mean that I'm crazy, nah? It means that my imagination is working.  

I've talked about what if and imagination and ask you, does that mean that the intricacies of the writer's mind are always moving your story along? Are there roadblocks to this imaginative thought process? Some of you will answer yes and others no. What about writers block some might ask; that interrupts my writing. This I'll discuss in my next post.