About author R. E. (Ron) Starr

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	Will today witness the final move on my personal game board—and hopefully my salvation? I repeated the line three times, each time slowing my enunciation while I held my index finger poised over the final punctuation mark, the ending of my ninety-day memoir—and my misery. For more than a few moments I considered remaining in that stationary position until the accumulated stress on my arm forced me to either yank my hand back to the perceived safety of denial, or send my finger, no my entire being—on an express train to hell. Finally I decided. I slammed the key. I watched as the type lever propelled the final period in an arc up and through the ancient Royal typewriter’s black ribbon and towards the paper-covered platen. I listened as the metal typeface landed with a resounding and final clack onto the cheap white paper and then retreated to its desired resting place. Unsure whether to sigh in relief or cry in despair—I did neither. Instead, I sat back and contemplated the totality of my effort to identify and describe what had led me to this place, this time. I discovered no answers. But then, had I really expected to solve an enigma simply by assigning it to something more substantial than my unstable mind? Did I truly expect to achieve enlightenment through nothing more than a few feet of inked ribbon and a sheaf of paper? I suppose not. Only in the deepest recesses of my mind had I hoped against hope that unburdening myself onto paper might allow me to comprehend why I found myself sitting at a scarred table proudly displaying years of abuse by past wayfarers who sought temporary safety in this room. But safety from what, drugs, bankruptcy, the law, mental boogiemen? Or most likely—the reality of their morally, intellectually, or physically corrupt lives. One scar in particular caught my attention each time I sat at the table to pound furiously on the typewriter. The scar, gouged by a penknife, a paperclip—or more likely the fingernail of a man or woman who had completely given up all hope had become my personal mantra. It read simply, I’M LOST HELP ME PLEASE GOD, HELP ME! After a few moments of reflection that provided neither spark of insight nor a whisper from on high, I resigned myself to the inevitable. I ripped the final piece of paper from the typewriter’s carriage and stacked it neatly with the others, the results of three weeks trying to make sense of the incomprehensible. I now knew—I had failed. Fate left me little choice. I turned the stack over and scribbled a final note on the manuscripts title page to the only friend I had in the world. I laid the pen next to my tormented tome, slid my chair back, and glanced around my self-imposed prison cell. I failed to discover anything other than sparse furnishings and battered ambiance. The walls sadly displayed a selection of faded and peeling wallpaper that had once depicted a bright and cheery imitation of Vincent Van Gogh’s various sunflowers, but now resembled a morose characterization of wilting weeds caught in the grip of an early winter, the time when death approaches regardless of our individual desires. Dropping my eyes, my attention landed on a now familiar bed composed of a headboard and footboard built from decaying and flaking pot aluminum, metal springs that squeaked each time I moved, and a lumpy mattress I knew hosted a variety of creatures that failed to disturb my nightly three hours of sleep. I removed the bed from my line of sight and glanced towards the floor. A sight that in the past would have repulsed me now made me smile. A cockroach scampered across the threadbare carpeting and climbed the toe of my shoe seemingly without a care in the world for my thoughts or my destiny. And I wondered why. But I knew. A creature descended from a species that walked the earth eons before man arrived to take what he believed was his rightful place—owed no explanation for its thoughts or its actions. The cockroach slipped off my shoe on its route to Mrs. Cockroach and the kids who lived—where? Maybe beneath my pillow? I no longer cared. I let the roach be. After all, beyond the tip of my nose—who am I to decide who lives and who dies? I am not God. Is there a God? I’m not sure. The extreme confusion I’ve felt over these last few months has obviously not diminished. I turned off the rusty table lamp with its forty-watt bulb and its tattered lampshade. I stood on shaky legs and walked to the room’s single window, an opening that allowed the cross-sound wind and sweet salt air to hide the taste of mildew I awakened to each morning. I breathed in the air and once again my thoughts drifted to a special place in my mind where I stopped and savored similar air floating through the flowing hair of my love, my life, my wife. I stood by the open window and remembered. Oh how I remembered. But as with all of my memories, the events of the past three months had finally convinced me my memories were not real. They were figments of a mind sickened by… by what? I had no idea. For the previous three months a day hadn’t gone by that I didn’t open my eyes with the hope that, like Dickens’ Scrooge, I would awaken to a sunrise announcing—a single night has passed, and I could shout to the world—it’s not too late. I’ve seen the light. I’m a new person. Each sunrise, however, announced only a continuation of a nightmare that with each passing day drove me deeper and deeper into isolation and despair. Shaking free from a mind struggling to find an alternative, an alternative I now realized didn’t exist—I finally accepted the fact that my memories of a former life were not real. Where they had originated I had no idea, but did it matter? The nightmare I had lived for the past three months was not a nightmare. It was my life, a life filled with flesh and blood, not the memories of an unbalanced mind rushing toward insanity. I remained stationary at the window for another minute and watched the blinking red lights of the Pacific Hotel neon sign bathe me in alternating shades of blood red and midnight black, colors that perfectly matched my mind and my destiny. I climbed out the window and balanced myself on a brick ledge that threatened to crumble beneath my feet. I ignored the danger. I spread my arms. Without further hesitation I fell forward with a single thought burning its way through my mind. God, please forgive me—but I think I’ve finally landed on…!

	When nature decides to abruptly change the rules about perceived reality, a person has only two choices, adapt and muddle through, or join a long list of fellow travelers who simply gave into their overwhelming desire to leap into the afterlife. Brad understood this from a purely intellectual perspective but never fathomed having to actually deal with it. That all changed one beautiful late spring day when the world he and Jesse had known and thought they could trust was not just flipped head over heels, but while it was flipping---it was violently turned inside out.

	AS I LOOK BACK over the last twelve years, I suppose the ego-crushing experiences I encountered were not unique in a writer’s world. I say, suppose, since I would rather believe in my individuality, my singularity, and most of all—my ability to succeed in any undertaking. But then, after sixty plus years of life proving me wrong about many of my beliefs—I guess I can live with one more. There I go again, jumping ahead of myself. God how I wish my fingers could keep up with my mind—even when thoughts flow like cold molasses. DURING THE FIRST TWO years as a beginning writer, I met the love of my life, consumed gallons of wine, and wrote, rewrote, and re-rewrote my first Great American Novel. The rewrites grew so numerous I could recite most pages word for word. After completing my masterpiece, I mailed a query letter and partial manuscript to a literary agent. I knew in my soul this woman waited expectantly for the envelope to arrive. I imagined a smiling courier handing my letter to a nodding and knowing secretary who, seeing the return name and address, smiled. She passed the query to a messenger who rushed towards a closed conference room where the agent had assembled a group of publishers—each prepared to outbid the other for my work. The messenger knocked, failed to wait for a response. He burst into the room and announced, “It’s here.” Without waiting for the applause to die, he approached the agent and presented her with my gift. The woman clutched the letter to her bosom. Her retirement financially assured—she beamed. Such are the wanderings of the uninitiated mind—and thank God for such dreams. Without them none of us would ever persevere through life’s roadblocks. More…

	Word crafting—creating imagery in the mind of a reader through use of the right word and word combinations. Writing is an interchange of emotions between an author and a reader. A writer creates a story line revolving around conflicts resolved by believable characters. Through dialogue either characters come alive and trap a reader into continuing, or they die when they speak, allowing a reader to close the book—permanently. If a writer performs his or her role effectively, a reader can relax and immerse their imaginations in the story and the characters. This cookbook of hints and absolutes will assist any writer to capture his or her readers.

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Ghost, mystical, mysticism,
spiritualism, supernatural,
detective, suspense, thriller,
mystery, crime, hurricane, fantasy,
horror, retribution, witch, mafia,
inn, Cocoa, Beach, Ponce, spiritual

Here you'll discover Cocoa Beach Author Ron Starr's future novels that defy genre.
A little ghost story, a little supernatural detective, a little spiritualism, a little
mythology, a little history, a little mystery, a little fantasy, and all baked into
thrillers impossible to put down.

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O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
Lord Byron
(1788-1824)

The
Journey