While traveling north on I-75 on Sunday morning, I am reminded of the wonderful gift all writers have: observation and the ability to turn observations into short stories, novels, or scenes. If a writer is observant, or in the moment, he will be able to receive the gifts every day life has to offer: sunlight leaving dappled shade as it passes through a tapestry of leaves, the symphony of waves gently lapping ochre colored sugar sand punctuated with a sprinkling of seashells, or the tall man in a three-piece suite with a monk ring of hair around his bald pate. As we drive past Ocala, I am reminded of the gas stop we made last year when traversing this very same carpet of macadam. After paying for the fuel, on the way to the gent’s necessary room, a small man strode quickly toward me wearing a police uniform. His hair was cropped close to his head. He smiled and said, “Good morning.” I grabbed my notebook—I never leave home without one— and made this simple entry, “World’s Smallest Cop.” He will make an appearance in a story yet to be written, perhaps as an ally for Yale Larsson, Private Investigator.
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