![]() ![]() I made it through to the 2nd grade before I could read. For some reason I was late learning how to read. It was a naïve effort that used obvious rhymes, but I was inspired to write poetry. I remember writing a poem when I was about five years old. I came in on the tail end of that comet, and it was uncertain if I would even bloom at all, much less make a boom. ![]() He being a genius prodigy, who burned, burned, burned brightly like one of Kerouac’s fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars, and me being more of a late bloomer–or a late boomer–as our generation was known. His legend had always loomed large and was intimidating for me. Don’t drink from the poison wells in the oasis. In a way, I felt like he was telling me that I would be a writer, passing the torch on to me with the stipulation that I not make the mistake he made. I saw him shortly before his untimely passing in 2004 and he told me not to make the mistake he made, to sign away all rights to future royalties. Like, he had already crossed it off his bucket list and could therefore coast, resting on his laurels. Also, even if the book somehow became a best seller, he would not be paid anything more. I think his publisher had him under contract, so he couldn’t publish with anyone else. He had a second book published, Twilight Candelabra, and finished a few other books, but gave up on writing novels. Craddock, he was a prodigy who had his first novel published before he was 25. ![]()
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