I simply woke up one morning and had to write a novel. “What’s up with that?” I thought. The computer was not in working order, so out came the typewriter. Rewrites were difficult but manageable with a bizarre numbering system that even the best mathematician couldn’t calculate. All in all, it went well. I started the first story. Then I had an idea for another and started it. Eventually, I purchased another computer: faster, additional memory, and all-around better. The writing was going well.     One evening around seven o’clock, after having dinner with my parents, I stopped at the Mesquite branch of the Phoenix Public Library in Paradise Valley, Arizona (I was living in AZ then). I was looking for a telephone directory to find real estate agents in Manhattan. I planned to move there within the next year. Of course, there was none. However, as I crouched down and looked across the shelf at the bottom of the bookcase, I heard a man’s soft voice sounding from my left.     “Excuse me, Miss.”  I looked up. “Yes,” I whispered back as I stood up. Once fully upright, I looked down at him slightly. That made me think, why is always the short men that are trying to get my attention. Not that I’m that tall at 5’8”. “Hum,” I thought silently and waited for him to speak first for I had not approached him, he had approached me and a slight suspicious chord in me felt he had an ulterior motive.  “Can I ask you something?” he asked. “Sure,” I answered.  He pretended to be coy, or so it seemed as he looked down, then back up at me when he asked, “What do you do for a living?”  I’m a writer,” I said and went back to looking at the directories. All throughout the conversation, I showed little to no interest in him whatsoever because there was none. He smirked. I should have known better and walked away after that, but I remained. “I thought you might be,” he said in a way as if he knew something I did not. I frowned slightly at him. “And why might that be?” He shrugged. “You look like a writer; you know...creative.”  I nodded slightly, then looked around to see whether anyone else saw this guy or was I the only one. A few people saw him, mostly because his tone was a bit loud for the library. “What can I do for you?” I asked, attempting to hurry along whatever this was. Was he attempting to pick me up? That wasn’t going to happen. He was not my type—too short, too cocky, and generally average. “Well...,” he said, pausing slightly, “First let me introduce myself. I’m Jeffrey.” He paused again, thinking I would volunteer my name, but I didn’t. I just looked at him, waiting as if he had more to say about himself. “What is your name?” he asked. Allina,” I said. “Hi, Allina. Do you have a minute to talk with me?” “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” He smirked again, and I didn’t like that. I don’t like people that smirk. It’s creepy and somehow underhanded. “Yeah, we have been.” He paused again as if he was trying to mastermind something intelligent to say. “Where are you from?” “What do you want?” I asked him straight out. “Did you ever think about writing a novel?” “I already do that?”  “Anything I would have read?” “How would I know?”  There was that smirk again. So sarcastic that I wanted to turn and walk away. Instead, I turned my attention to the bookshelf and finished looking for the directory. “What are you looking for?” he asked. “Just something.” “So, did you ever think about writing a novel about illegal sports gambling and the mob?” “No, not particularly. Why? Have you?” I asked. “I’m not a writer. But, what if someone paid you to write about that? Would you do it?” “I know nothing about either,” I said. His eyebrows jolted up in the strangest, most disbelieving fashion, and I truly had no idea why. What was it that I said that made him react that way? Or was it that he knew something that I didn’t? Something about me? Bored with him, I returned my attention to the telephone directories. “What if I asked you to write a novel about illegal sports gambling and the mob? Would you do it?” Releasing an uninterested sigh, I turned and looked at him. “No, I don’t think I would.” “Not even for the right amount of money?” “I don’t know enough about the subjects to write intelligently about them.”  “It would be fiction. There’s already enough factual books out there on those subjects,” he said as he held out two books to me: one on the mafia and one on sports gambling. “So, you’re asking me whether I will write a book for you on those subjects. Why?” He suddenly got quiet. He looked down to the books, but when he looked back up to me, he said, “I had a friend that was killed by the mob because of illegal sports gambling.” Please don’t think I’m mean, but to myself I thought, “Why are people always telling me these sorts of things? What’s wrong with people? Do I look like a psychiatrist? Do I look like someone that wants to hear their deepest darkest secrets and problems? I must because here is, yet, another person unloading on me.  After a brief but sincere apology to God, I smiled and said. “I’m sorry about your friend.”  He smiled slightly and suddenly I realized he was a Libra. At first, I couldn’t get a grip on him but after that statement, I saw Libra in him, but not a Libra with the best of traits. So would you write for me?” he asked, completely over his previous statement about his friend’s supposed murder.  was a bit shocked but asked. “How old are you?” My tone was a bit condescending as if to accuse him of acting juvenile. “I’ll be thirty-six this October.” “Middle or end of the month?” “Middle. Why?” “Just curious.” “How old are you?” he asked. “Old enough.” He laughed slightly to himself and set his books off to the side on the table where he stood. “So, would you write a novel for me?” “No.”  “Why not?” “Why? If you want it written, write it yourself. You seem literate.” “I’m not talented. I’m not creative as you seem to be.” “You assume a lot.” “So, you’re not interested?” “I don’t have the expertise to write even a fictionalization on those subjects.” Then out of the blue, he said, “Would you believe that I turned one hundred thousand dollars into seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars by gambling?” He was bragging and quite proud of himself. Even if he were lying, what sort of person would talk about something like that, especially to a total stranger?  “Good for you,” I answered. “You see, I go to the same casinos that my friend went to. The only difference is that I win.” “I’m very happy for you.” “So would you write about these subjects?” “I think not.” “What if I offered you fifty thousand dollars to write a fiction novel about these subjects?” I looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot. Was he drunk? High? Maybe he just reads too much. Whatever it was, I didn’t like him...not one bit. “As I said before, I don’t know enough about either subject to write about them.” “You could travel with me and I could show you. Then you’d have enough information to write ‘intelligently’,” he said, slightly sarcastic. “What would make you think I would travel anywhere with you? Or even spend any more time with you now?” “Meow!” he said as his hand made a swiping motion like a cat clawing at something in front of it. I guess this was his indication that I was defensive, like a cat. Stupid as he was, he had no idea with whom he dealt. I only looked down at him with one eyebrow raised slightly that told him I thought he was an imbecile. Ignoring that, he asked, “Why not?”  “Look. You get me the facts. I’ll review them and let you know.”     “How do I get in touch with you?” I pulled out a business card with my office telephone number on it handed it to him. “Call the number on the bottom of that card. But if you do, and if I would ever write on this subject in any relation to you, I own everything. All the rights to the story, everything that would come from it.” He smirked again, but I somehow was more immune to it this time. “I wouldn’t want anything to do with any of that. I don’t want anyone knowing anything about me or any connection to you.” I rolled my eyes slightly, thinking, “Oh boy! Another one of those.” But egging him on, I said, “Why is that? How do you know that I won’t tell someone what you just told me?” He looked at the checkout desk. Then he looked back at me. “You have no idea who I am.” “Nor do I care,” I thought, but said, “You just told me your name.”  “If you went to that desk and asked them who just checked out these books, they’d give you a fake name. Not my name?” “Not Jeffrey Shepherd?” “That may not be my real name.” “Whatever,” I said and turned toward the exit. “Well, you have yourself a good night...whoever you are.” I started walking toward the door and unfortunately for me, he followed. Glancing around, I noticed people looking at us, and they had questions in the gazes. “God, how I wish I hadn’t come into this library tonight,” I whispered under my breath.   Walking outside, he said. “So do we have a deal?” “What deal?” “You’ll write about these subjects.” “There’s no deal. Check with me at the end of next week,” I said as I kept walking to my car. “No. I’ll call you in a month.” Over my shoulder I said, “The novel will be finished by then.”  I continued to my car as he walked to his. I got in mine, started it, and drove home. I was only about thirty minutes from my house and, within fifteen of those, I had the entire story mapped out in my head. I got home, let my dogs out in the yard, made myself a cappuccino and sat down at my desk. I grabbed my book of baby names from on top of it and started searching for a name for the main character.  This is going to be fun! So there it is. It all started with a strange and uncomfortable meeting at that library in Phoenix, Arizona. That was the birth of Ives Andrich and The Killing Game Series. As odd as that meeting was, and as odd as that man seemed (whatever his name), it was one of the best nights of my life. A night that changed my life forever. I sincerely hope that whoever buys my stories enjoys reading them as much as I enjoy writing them. Dedication and love go into every story, along with parts of me and my life (like this story, which actually happened). If you have not read any of my novels, I hope you will consider them for your reading pleasure in the future. I hope you follow along to find out what happens with my heroes, heroines, and villains! Sincerely, The Black Rose By the way, I did have some knowledge on both of the subjects he mentioned. But writing about them, even fictionally, gave me more first-hand knowledge than I could have ever wanted. THE BIRTH OF IVES ANDRICH   THE KILLING GAME SERIES &
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The Black Rose The Non-Fiction, Fiction
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© 2017 ∞ Copyright by The Black Rose & Andrich Publishing. All rights reserved.
The Black Rose The Non-Fiction, Fiction
THE BIRTH OF IVES ANDRICH   THE KILLING GAME SERIES &
I   simply   woke   up   one   morning   and   had   to   write a   novel.   “What’s   up   with   that?”   I   thought.   The computer    was    not    in    working    order,    so    out came    the    typewriter.    Rewrites    were    difficult but     manageable     with     a     bizarre     numbering system     that     even     the     best     mathematician couldn’t    calculate.    All    in    all,    it    went    well.    I started   the   first   story.   Then   I   had   an   idea   for another   and   started   it.   Eventually,   I   purchased another    computer:    faster,    additional    memory, and    all-around    better.    The    writing    was    going well.    One   evening   around   seven   o’clock,   after   having dinner     with     my     parents,     I     stopped     at     the Mesquite   branch   of   the   Phoenix   Public   Library in   Paradise   Valley,   Arizona   (I   was   living   in   AZ then).   I   was   looking   for   a   telephone   directory   to find   real   estate   agents   in   Manhattan.   I   planned to   move   there   within   the   next   year.   Of   course, there   was   none.   However,   as   I   crouched   down and    looked    across    the    shelf    at    the    bottom    of the     bookcase,     I     heard     a     man’s     soft     voice sounding from my left.    “Excuse me, Miss.” I   looked   up.   “Yes,”   I   whispered   back   as   I   stood up.    Once    fully    upright,    I    looked    down    at    him slightly.   That   made   me   think,   why   is   always   the short   men   that   are   trying   to   get   my   attention. Not   that   I’m   that   tall   at   5’8”.   “Hum,”   I   thought silently   and   waited   for   him   to   speak   first   for   I had    not    approached    him,    he    had    approached me   and   a   slight   suspicious   chord   in   me   felt   he had an ulterior motive. “Can I ask you something?” he asked. “Sure,” I answered. He   pretended   to   be   coy,   or   so   it   seemed   as   he looked    down,    then    back    up    at    me    when    he asked, “What do you do for a living?” I’m   a   writer,”   I   said   and   went   back   to   looking   at the          directories.          All          throughout          the conversation,   I   showed   little   to   no   interest   in him whatsoever because there was none. He    smirked.    I    should    have    known    better    and walked     away     after     that,     but     I     remained.     “I thought   you   might   be,”   he   said   in   a   way   as   if   he knew something I did not. I   frowned   slightly   at   him.   “And   why   might   that be?” He     shrugged.     “You     look     like     a     writer;     you know...creative.” I    nodded    slightly,    then    looked    around    to    see whether   anyone   else   saw   this   guy   or   was   I   the only   one.   A   few   people   saw   him,   mostly   because his tone was a bit loud for the library. “What   can   I   do   for   you?”   I   asked,   attempting   to hurry      along      whatever      this      was.      Was      he attempting   to   pick   me   up?   That   wasn’t   going   to happen.    He    was    not    my    type—too    short,    too cocky, and generally average. “Well...,”   he   said,   pausing   slightly,   “First   let   me introduce   myself.   I’m   Jeffrey.”   He   paused   again, thinking    I    would    volunteer    my    name,    but    I didn’t.   I   just   looked   at   him,   waiting   as   if   he   had more to say about himself. “What is your name?” he asked. Allina,” I said. “Hi,   Allina.   Do   you   have   a   minute   to   talk   with me?” “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” He   smirked   again,   and   I   didn’t   like   that.   I   don’t like   people   that   smirk.   It’s   creepy   and   somehow underhanded.   “Yeah,   we   have   been.”   He   paused again     as     if     he     was     trying     to     mastermind something    intelligent    to    say.    “Where    are    you from?” “What do you want?” I asked him straight out. “Did you ever think about writing a novel?” “I already do that?” “Anything I would have read?” “How would I know?” There   was   that   smirk   again.   So   sarcastic   that   I wanted   to   turn   and   walk   away.   Instead,   I   turned my    attention    to    the    bookshelf    and    finished looking for the directory. “What are you looking for?” he asked. “Just something.” “So,    did    you    ever    think    about    writing    a    novel about illegal sports gambling and the mob?” “No, not particularly. Why? Have you?” I asked. “I’m   not   a   writer.   But,   what   if   someone   paid   you to write about that? Would you do it?” “I know nothing about either,” I said. His   eyebrows   jolted   up   in   the   strangest,   most disbelieving    fashion,    and    I    truly    had    no    idea why.    What    was    it    that    I    said    that    made    him react     that     way?     Or     was     it     that     he     knew something   that   I   didn’t?   Something   about   me? Bored   with   him,   I   returned   my   attention   to   the telephone directories. “What    if    I    asked    you    to    write    a    novel    about illegal   sports   gambling   and   the   mob?   Would   you do it?” Releasing    an    uninterested    sigh,    I    turned    and looked at him. “No, I don’t think I would.” “Not even for the right amount of money?” “I    don’t    know    enough    about    the    subjects    to write intelligently about them.” “It    would    be    fiction.    There’s    already    enough factual   books   out   there   on   those   subjects,”   he said   as   he   held   out   two   books   to   me:   one   on   the mafia and one on sports gambling. “So,    you’re    asking    me    whether    I    will    write    a book for you on those subjects. Why?” He   suddenly   got   quiet.   He   looked   down   to   the books,   but   when   he   looked   back   up   to   me,   he said,   “I   had   a   friend   that   was   killed   by   the   mob because of illegal sports gambling.” Please    don’t    think    I’m    mean,    but    to    myself    I thought,    “Why    are    people    always    telling    me these     sorts     of     things?     What’s     wrong     with people?   Do   I   look   like   a   psychiatrist?   Do   I   look like   someone   that   wants   to   hear   their   deepest darkest   secrets   and   problems?   I   must   because here is, yet, another person unloading on me.
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