Last week found me immersed in humanity, selling my wares on the streets of Greenwich Village – the cultural heart of New York City as I understand it. I was out of place here, certainly, but I value the stretch this provides for my powers of adaptability. If I can survive Greenwich Village, I can survive anywhere.

It was more than generous of my friends Jack Kohl and Peter Klann to have me out – together we improvised a “Bleecker Street Records Independent Author Day” meant to showcase the recent literary endeavours of Jack and myself. Jack’s book, by the way, is “That Iron String,” his fictional treatment of the piano competition world, composed and rendered as only Jack can. My book is set in the wildest places; Jack’s, one could say, is set in the most civilized but despite the disparity, both tackle universal truths in the end. Peter has not written a book to date but is strongly considering a retrospective on Bleecker Street Records and its place in the Village.

The little walk I started ten years ago in a Georgia cornfield has come a long way.