truth_laughs_at_plot_twists

One morning, I woke up with an irresistible urge to write a novel. “What’s up with that?” I thought. My computer was out of commission, so I dusted off an old typewriter. Rewriting was tedious, complicated by a bizarre numbering system even a mathematician would struggle to decipher. Still, I managed. I began one story, then got an idea for another and started it too. Eventually, I invested in a new computer—faster, more memory, better in every way—and my writing began to flow smoothly. Several months later, after having dinner with my parents, I stopped by the Mesquite branch of the Phoenix Public Library in Paradise Valley, Arizona. At the time, I was living in Arizona and looking for a telephone directory to find Manhattan real estate agents; I planned to move there within the year. I didn’t find the directory, but as I crouched near the bottom shelf of a bookcase, a man’s voice broke the silence. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. His tone was soft but carried an unmistakable confidence, almost as if he knew something I didn’t. I looked up and whispered back, “Yes?” Standing, I realized I was slightly taller than him—at 5’8”, not particularly tall, but tall enough to notice. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: why do shorter men always approach me? I dismissed it and waited for him to speak, letting the awkward silence stretch. “Can I ask you something?” he said, his lips twitching in a faint smirk. “Sure,” I replied, my voice neutral but distant. He hesitated, looking down as though debating his next words, then back up at me with a studied expression. “What do you do for a living?” “I’m a writer,” I said, already turning back to the shelf. His question felt more like a pick-up line than genuine curiosity, and I wasn’t interested in indulging him. “I thought so,” he said, his smirk widening, now laced with cynicism. “I could tell.” I frowned, side-eyeing him. “And why’s that?” “You just look like one—creative, you know?” he said, gesturing vaguely at me as if that explained anything. I scanned the room, wondering if anyone else had noticed him. A few heads turned, probably because his voice was just loud enough to stand out in the otherwise quiet library. “What can I do for you?” I asked, trying to hurry this along. Was he hitting on me? He didn’t seem the type to be interested in libraries, let alone writers. Too short, too cocky, too... average. “Well,” he began, drawing out the word, “first, let me introduce myself. I’m Jeffrey.” He paused, his smirk deepening as if he expected me to be impressed or at least offer my name in return. After a beat, I relented. “Allina,” I said flatly. “Hi, Allina.” He shifted his weight, his eyes flickering with something that looked like amusement. “Do you have a minute to talk?” “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I replied, my tone edged with irritation. His smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it became more self-assured. “Fair point. Where are you from?” I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes slightly. “What do you want?” He chuckled—a low, cynical sound—as though my bluntness amused him. “Did you ever think about writing a novel?” “I already do that,” I said, my tone clipped. “Anything I might’ve read?” he asked, his voice tinged with mock curiosity. “How would I know?” I shot back, keeping my eyes on the shelves. That smirk again. Oh, how I hated it. His sarcasm was like an itch I couldn’t scratch. “What are you looking for?” he asked, leaning slightly closer. “Just something.” “Have you ever considered writing about illegal sports gambling and the mob?” I turned to him, my expression flat. “No, not particularly. Why? Have you?” “I’m not a writer,” he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “But what if someone paid you to write about that? Would you do it?” “I don’t know enough about either,” I replied, wondering where this was going—and why I was still engaging. His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, and a glimmer of something sharp flickered in his bloodshot eyes. “Really?” he said, drawing the word out, his tone a mix of disbelief and challenge. “What if I asked you to write it for me? Would you?” With a sigh, I turned to face him fully. “No, I don’t think so.” “Not even for the right price?” “I don’t have the expertise to write intelligently about those topics.” “It’s fiction,” he said with a dismissive wave, revealing two books he held in his hand: one on the mafia, the other on sports gambling. “You don’t need expertise for that.” I raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re asking me to write a book on these subjects for you. Why?” His expression shifted. For a moment, the cockiness faded, replaced by something quieter, almost somber. “I had a friend killed by the mob over illegal sports gambling.” His words caught me off guard, but I quickly masked my reaction. Why do strangers always feel compelled to tell me their life stories? Do I look like a therapist? “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said, my voice softening out of politeness rather than genuine sympathy. He smiled faintly, a calculated expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “So, would you write for me?” “How old are you?” I asked, my tone sharper now, as though I were scolding a child. “I’ll be thirty-six in October.” “Middle or end of the month?” “Middle. Why?” “Just curious.” “And how old are you?” “Old enough,” I replied, my voice tinged with finality. He chuckled to himself, setting the books down on a nearby table. “So, would you write a novel for me?” “No.” “Why not?” “If you want it written, write it yourself. You seem literate.” “I’m not talented. Not creative, like you.” “You assume a lot,” I said, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “What if I offered you $50,000?” he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially, as if he were sharing some grand secret. I stared at him, my patience wearing thin. “As I said, I don’t know enough about the subjects.” “You could travel with me,” he said, his tone turning sly. “Learn firsthand.” I stepped back slightly, folding my arms. “What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you?” “Meow!” he said, swiping the air like a cat clawing something. I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Look, you get me the facts, and I’ll think about it.” He asked for my contact information, and I handed him a business card. “Call the number at the bottom. But if I agree, I own everything—rights, story, all of it.” “Fair,” he said with a crooked smirk that somehow felt even more irritating. As he walked away, I muttered under my breath, “Another one of those,” and left the library. Outside, the cool evening air did little to clear the lingering discomfort from our exchange. I spotted him leaning casually against a car, watching me with that same self-satisfied smirk. My stomach tightened. Was he waiting for me? “So, do we have a deal?” he asked as I approached the parking lot. “What deal?” I said, feigning ignorance and not slowing my pace. “You’ll write about these subjects,” he said, stepping toward me as if his persistence would sway me. “There’s no deal,” I said firmly, unlocking my car door. “Check back with me at the end of next week.” He chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “No, I’ll call you in a month.” Over my shoulder, I replied, “The novel will be finished by then.” Sliding into my car, I started the engine and glanced in the rearview mirror. He was still standing there, hands in his pockets, that maddening smirk plastered on his face. Shaking my head, I drove away, leaving him and his bizarre proposition behind. Fifteen minutes into the drive, my irritation began to morph into something unexpected: curiosity. The outline of a story started taking shape in my mind, piece by piece, until it clicked. By the time I got home, I had the entire plot mapped out. After letting the dogs out and brewing myself a cappuccino, I sat at my desk, grabbed my well-worn baby name book, and began flipping through its pages. My main character needed a name. The excitement building in my chest was undeniable. This was going to be fun. And so, that strange, unsettling encounter at the Phoenix Public Library became the birth of Ives Andrich and The Killing Game Series. As I reflect on it now, I can’t help but marvel at the odd twists of fate. That man—whatever his real name was—changed my life forever. His smugness and cynicism had ignited something within me, something creative and unstoppable. While I had some knowledge of gambling and the mob, writing about them taught me more than I ever wanted to know. Funny how life works, isn’t it?

Surrender the pen, and let The Lord write the story.

Truth Laughs at Plot Twists: The Birth of Ives Andrich & The Killing Game Series

Behind the Scenes

One morning, I woke up with an irresistible urge to write a novel. “What’s up with that?” I thought. My computer was out of commission, so I dusted off an old typewriter. Rewriting was tedious, complicated by a bizarre numbering system even a mathematician would struggle to decipher. Still, I managed. I began one story, then got an idea for another and started it too. Eventually, I invested in a new computer— faster, more memory, better in every way— and my writing began to flow smoothly. Several months later, after having dinner with my parents, I stopped by the Mesquite branch of the Phoenix Public Library in Paradise Valley, Arizona. At the time, I was living in Arizona and looking for a telephone directory to find Manhattan real estate agents; I planned to move there within the year. I didn’t find the directory, but as I crouched near the bottom shelf of a bookcase, a man’s voice broke the silence. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. His tone was soft but carried an unmistakable confidence, almost as if he knew something I didn’t. I looked up and whispered back, “Yes?” Standing, I realized I was slightly taller than him—at 5’8”, not particularly tall, but tall enough to notice. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: why do shorter men always approach me? I dismissed it and waited for him to speak, letting the awkward silence stretch. “Can I ask you something?” he said, his lips twitching in a faint smirk. “Sure,” I replied, my voice neutral but distant. He hesitated, looking down as though debating his next words, then back up at me with a studied expression. “What do you do for a living?” “I’m a writer,” I said, already turning back to the shelf. His question felt more like a pick-up line than genuine curiosity, and I wasn’t interested in indulging him. “I thought so,” he said, his smirk widening, now laced with cynicism. “I could tell.” I frowned, side-eyeing him. “And why’s that?” “You just look like one—creative, you know?” he said, gesturing vaguely at me as if that explained anything. I scanned the room, wondering if anyone else had noticed him. A few heads turned, probably because his voice was just loud enough to stand out in the otherwise quiet library. “What can I do for you?” I asked, trying to hurry this along. Was he hitting on me? He didn’t seem the type to be interested in libraries, let alone writers. Too short, too cocky, too... average. “Well,” he began, drawing out the word, “first, let me introduce myself. I’m Jeffrey.” He paused, his smirk deepening as if he expected me to be impressed or at least offer my name in return. After a beat, I relented. “Allina,” I said flatly. “Hi, Allina.” He shifted his weight, his eyes flickering with something that looked like amusement. “Do you have a minute to talk?” “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” I replied, my tone edged with irritation. His smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it became more self-assured. “Fair point. Where are you from?” I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes slightly. “What do you want?” He chuckled—a low, cynical sound—as though my bluntness amused him. “Did you ever think about writing a novel?” “I already do that,” I said, my tone clipped. “Anything I might’ve read?” he asked, his voice tinged with mock curiosity. “How would I know?” I shot back, keeping my eyes on the shelves. That smirk again. Oh, how I hated it. His sarcasm was like an itch I couldn’t scratch. “What are you looking for?” he asked, leaning slightly closer. “Just something.” “Have you ever considered writing about illegal sports gambling and the mob?” I turned to him, my expression flat. “No, not particularly. Why? Have you?” “I’m not a writer,” he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “But what if someone paid you to write about that? Would you do it?” “I don’t know enough about either,” I replied, wondering where this was going— and why I was still engaging. His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, and a glimmer of something sharp flickered in his bloodshot eyes. “Really?” he said, drawing the word out, his tone a mix of disbelief and challenge. “What if I asked you to write it for me? Would you?” With a sigh, I turned to face him fully. “No, I don’t think so.” “Not even for the right price?” “I don’t have the expertise to write intelligently about those topics.” “It’s fiction,” he said with a dismissive wave, revealing two books he held in his hand: one on the mafia, the other on sports gambling. “You don’t need expertise for that.” I raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re asking me to write a book on these subjects for you. Why?” His expression shifted. For a moment, the cockiness faded, replaced by something quieter, almost somber. “I had a friend killed by the mob over illegal sports gambling.” His words caught me off guard, but I quickly masked my reaction. Why do strangers always feel compelled to tell me their life stories? Do I look like a therapist? “I’m sorry about your friend,” I said, my voice softening out of politeness rather than genuine sympathy. He smiled faintly, a calculated expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “So, would you write for me?” “How old are you?” I asked, my tone sharper now, as though I were scolding a child. “I’ll be thirty-six in October.” “Middle or end of the month?” “Middle. Why?” “Just curious.” “And how old are you?” “Old enough,” I replied, my voice tinged with finality. He chuckled to himself, setting the books down on a nearby table. “So, would you write a novel for me?” “No.” “Why not?” “If you want it written, write it yourself. You seem literate.” “I’m not talented. Not creative, like you.” “You assume a lot,” I said, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. “What if I offered you $50,000?” he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially, as if he were sharing some grand secret. I stared at him, my patience wearing thin. “As I said, I don’t know enough about the subjects.” “You could travel with me,” he said, his tone turning sly. “Learn firsthand.” I stepped back slightly, folding my arms. “What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you?” “Meow!” he said, swiping the air like a cat clawing something. I raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Look, you get me the facts, and I’ll think about it.” He asked for my contact information, and I handed him a business card. “Call the number at the bottom. But if I agree, I own everything—rights, story, all of it.” “Fair,” he said with a crooked smirk that somehow felt even more irritating. As he walked away, I muttered under my breath, “Another one of those,” and left the library. Outside, the cool evening air did little to clear the lingering discomfort from our exchange. I spotted him leaning casually against a car, watching me with that same self-satisfied smirk. My stomach tightened. Was he waiting for me? “So, do we have a deal?” he asked as I approached the parking lot. “What deal?” I said, feigning ignorance and not slowing my pace. “You’ll write about these subjects,” he said, stepping toward me as if his persistence would sway me. “There’s no deal,” I said firmly, unlocking my car door. “Check back with me at the end of next week.” He chuckled, the sound low and mocking. “No, I’ll call you in a month.” Over my shoulder, I replied, “The novel will be finished by then.” Sliding into my car, I started the engine and glanced in the rearview mirror. He was still standing there, hands in his pockets, that maddening smirk plastered on his face. Shaking my head, I drove away, leaving him and his bizarre proposition behind. Fifteen minutes into the drive, my irritation began to morph into something unexpected: curiosity. The outline of a story started taking shape in my mind, piece by piece, until it clicked. By the time I got home, I had the entire plot mapped out. After letting the dogs out and brewing myself a cappuccino, I sat at my desk, grabbed my well-worn baby name book, and began flipping through its pages. My main character needed a name. The excitement building in my chest was undeniable. This was going to be fun. And so, that strange, unsettling encounter at the Phoenix Public Library became the birth of Ives Andrich and The Killing Game Series. As I reflect on it now, I can’t help but marvel at the odd twists of fate. That man—whatever his real name was—changed my life forever. His smugness and cynicism had ignited something within me, something creative and unstoppable. While I had some knowledge of gambling and the mob, writing about them taught me more than I ever wanted to know. Funny how life works, isn’t it?

Surrender the pen, and let The Lord write the story.

Truth Laughs at Plot Twists The Birth of Ives Andrich & The Killing Game Series

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Behind the Scenes

"The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge; fools despise wisdom and instruction." Proverbs 1:7

The Black Rose

The Black Rose