A collection of tales, illustrations, and musings where crows are the messengers, but the story is human.
A little throwback to Whistler the budgie, who once perfected his cowboy routine. He’d say “Giddyup, horsie,” make his own clip-clop sound effects, then throw in a “Whoa, Nelly!” before galloping off again.
If he’d ever had a horse, we definitely would’ve named it Nelly—though of course, I wouldn’t have let him ride it in the house. And yes, that clip-clop sound? All him. He was quite the performer.
Okay, let me wrestle the spotlight away from all these jokesters—and king jokester himself, Dervish—to say something for a minute. I know Dervish believes he could exist without me, and it’s hard for him to realize I created him.
Which brings me to how stories and characters come to life in the first place. I never set out to do this—it just happens. A small snippet of a possible story will pop into my head while I’m walking, driving, or even doing the dishes. Then I have to figure out how to shape it: What kind of vehicle will carry the idea? How do I resolve it, twist it, make it funny, or make it real?
Sometimes, you have to leap into the abyss and see what comes out. You shut off the logical part of your brain and just surf the wave, letting go of the usual locked gates that hold you back. I think they call it flow. You can’t force it. That’s why my first stabs at writing are messy—I don’t worry about grammar, just the thoughts.
As for characters, they come from a place called “ation”—exaggeration, extrapolation, imagination, amalgamation. They’re tiny pieces of things you’ve heard, things you’ve felt, people you’ve known, something someone once said. But they’re never just one thing. It’s like making a stew—if you get it right, it tastes good. And if you get characters right, they feel real.
Writers, artists, musicians—we do what we do even if no one ever sees, hears, or reads it. It’s a force that feels like magic, and that’s why I keep doing it. Maybe it’s like a runner’s high, but I’m too lazy to find that out. I’ll just walk and look at the trees, thanks.
All those years in the corporate world, dreaming of getting home to do the things I actually wanted to do—only to be too tired to do them. And yet, somehow, I still did them. Because of that force.
I was walking past the music room when I heard singing. At first, I thought it was The Joker by Steve Miller, but something was…off. The words weren’t quite right.
I peeked inside and found Dervish, deeply engrossed in what appeared to be a self-portrait—scrawled with his own revised lyrics. Apparently, the song needed a few improvements to better suit his worldview.
Here’s the full version of Dervish’s rewrite. I take no responsibility for the liberties he’s taken with the lyrics:
Some people call me a con artiste
some people call me the gangster of junk
some people call me Derveeeeeesh!
cause I reek of the pompitous of skunk
I'm a squawker, I'm a talker
I'm a trash bin stalker
I steal your bacon then I run
I'm a joker, I'm a croaker
I'm a back room broker
Sure don't wanna hurt no one
I'm a trickster, I'm a fixer
I'm a double dose elixir
I peddle nonsense just for fun
The haunting melody and mysterious lyrics of Gypsy inspired the name of a character in my book. Naturally, Dervish couldn’t resist rewriting the song—to make it all about him. It seems publishing didn’t close the chapter on Dervish and his antics.
Publishing Sea Horses in the Olive Jar didn’t stop Dervish from making his opinions known—especially when it comes to Dr. Horton’s clinic. His latest contribution? A scathing yowl review, voicing his deep dissatisfaction with his most recent visit. I suspect his real complaint isn’t the care he received but rather something more ridiculous.
At this point, I’ve probably spent more money on his fake illnesses than on food for myself. Here it is, straight from the beak of my most dramatic (and expensive) critic.
