Quotes by Marisa Cleveland
Imagine, “There is no box…”
“If you want to limit yourself, that’s fine. But don’t let other people do it for you.”
“We didn’t cross the line. We erased it.”
“I have to believe I’m *here* rather than *there* for a reason. #adopted #ownyourlife”
“Every morning I wake up with the intention to walk with peace in my heart. #adopted #ownyourlife”
“My mom loved me when no one else wanted me. #adopted #ownyourlife”
“Play or be played, but get in the game.”
“Enjoy the journey.”
“…when critics leave, with an empty stage, the lights dimmed low, and no front row, with no opinions, just her soul, then in her veins, the dance remains…”
“Life is one long weekend…”
Day Three! Interview the person listed below you… Phew! Here it is, uncut, for your reading pleasure…
Marisa Cleveland’s eyes grew rounder by the second. I didn’t blame her. Meilori’s, the haunted jazz club, where she was interviewing me was a bit more … haunted than ever.
It was much wider, higher, and deeper than seemed possible from how it looked on the outside. I could see no walls, much less any torches that hung from them.
In this dark cavern of a saloon, things vast, blind, and monstrous took shape in the bronze-hued mists that billowed all through the place.
They became almost solid, fuzzed, then drifted apart only to re-form feet from where they had been.
A dance macabre formed in the mists to our far left. Sprites of dark ice spun on one leg, twirling slowly, their angular faces lost in some delirium of madness. They began to sing.
If ever hate and evil were incarnated in sound, I heard and felt it then. It filled the room, the streets beyond, the sky, the very universe filled with it.
Its blackness hit me like a physical wind, and I knew if I looked outside, the stars themselves would be blotted out.
Marisa cleared her throat, “Could you give me three words to describe your personality?”
The ghost of Oscar Wilde slipped into the empty chair beside her, kissing her hand lightly.
“Oh, no! Merely three words will not do for Roland. Here is the sentence that sums him up perfectly: Roland bears the curse of being a dreamer.”
Marisa frowned. “Curse?”
Oscar sighed. “Alas, yes, a curse, for a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.”
Marisa started when the ghost of Jean Lafitte slipped into the seat on the other side of her, but she gamely asked me, “Tell us about what you write.”
Jean winked at her. “Ah, Cherie, he writes the truth that all of you living deceive yourselves into thinking urban fantasy.”
Oscar looked troubled and sighed, “It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.”
Marisa looked a bit troubled by Oscar’s words herself but still murmured her next question. “Give us a sample day in your life.”
The ghost of Mark Twain cackled a chuckle, sitting to my left and slapping me on the shoulder. “Why, this boy here packs twenty-seven hours of living into each and every day.”
Mark winked at the paling Marisa. “He gets up two hours early to read that Bible of his, then studies the most godawful things from Sumerian mythology to Lakota death rites to World economy. Why, just watching him do that drains me to the quick.”
Mark leaned back, “And what does the boy do but works 10 hours driving rare blood all over God’s creation, then stays up half the night on call or writing. It purely tires me out just watching do it!”
He leaned over the table to Marisa. “Why, I ask you: what’s the use you learning to do right, when it’s troublesome to do right and ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same?”
I smiled. “It confuses my enemies, sir.”
He brightened at that. “Why, son, then all that effort is worthwhile after all!”
Marisa shook her head at him, then turned to me. “What’s your favorite craft book for writing? Favorite fiction book?”
I quickly spoke before any of my ghost friends could beat me to it. “An out of print book by Dean Koontz on how to write any genre of fiction.”
Mark Twain peered at me. “And your favorite fiction book?”
“Why your autobiography, of course, sir.”
He cackled at that and pounded my shoulder. “Tarnation, you got me there. ‘Sides I know you love LORD OF LIGHT by that Roger Zelazny fella.”
Alice Wentworth, the Victorian ghoul, eased a startled Marisa to her feet and sputtered, “I have more questions.”
Alice sighed, “And breath to ask them. Stay longer and both breath and questions will cease. Dawn is coming.”
Marisa looked at me. “You’re staying?”
I smiled sadly. “Didn’t you notice? I no longer breathe.”
Thanks, everyone, for stopping by! Thanks, Roland! Here’s Sharon’s post where you can view the other bloggers. If you want to read my interview, please visit Jamie’s blog.