I have been ...truant.
Any of number of friends, students, well-wishers and critics have informed me that there is a certain unspoken contract within the blogosphere; readers are expected to read and bloggers are expected to, well, ...blog.
I have been remiss.

I offer no excuse.   The churning maelstrom that is my life might serve as sufficient excuse to bring a mortal man to his knees, but I continue to roll this boulder uphill with nary a whimper.

The entire process of "blogging" is curious indeed.  Most folks choose the regimen either for 1.) Profit, 2.) Influence or 3.) the Simple Need to Be Heard.

Most often, I write because I am interested in finding out what I think.  ...And often I don't (...can't) crystallize my thoughts until I write them down.  Interestingly, I often can't wait to see what I have to say on a subject.   

I blog, therefore, I am!   I have always written as a form of therapy.  It is, to quote Ishmael, "My substitute for pistol and ball."  Writing helps me step back and put the world in a little perspective.

And writing fiction allows one to re-create a world that pleases the sensibilities.  No wonder Rowling's Potter books are so successful!  She's created a world where a pre-adolescent boy discovers that 1.) his embarrassing parents are not really his parents, 2.) he's not only special, but famous! and 3.) there is a separate world that awaits him where he is the pivotal figure!  Talk about your pre-teen fantasy!

I also read ...more than a little.  I will consume upwards of 100 books a year.  I read voraciously, ecumenically; but I've also discovered the strange world of recorded books.  My local library has thousands of titles available -- for free!  It is rare for me to be behind the wheel and not listening to a book.

(A brief aside:  I utilize much of my "listening time" to focus on "The Classics."  Or at least the "Oldies."  I continue to be struck with how politically incorrect are many of the most famous "Classic" works.  Works by Sir Walter Scott, Conan Doyle, Edgar Rice Burroughs and other "Masters" drip with racism, religious bigotry, misogyny and all forms of prejudice.  One is lead to wonder if, a millennia from now, Mickey Spillane will be looked at as a sage old master.)

But I also collect books.  I collect signed First Editions.  I would describe myself as a "Bibliophile," but that would convey an air of legitimacy to my obsession that is, at the least, unwarranted.  My wife (who reads a book every year or two) tolerates my obsession primarily because she also is a collector; primarily of expensive clothes and jewelry.  My home is awash with stacks of books.  

(A number of friends and well-wishers have attempted to convert me to the wonders of e-books.   Kindle, Nook, i-Pad, etc. They extol the ability to take 20 books on an airplane.  They revel in the reduced cost and the ability to purchase new releases instantaneously.  Sadly, I remain a purist.  Books remain a tactile pleasure in my life.  Their feel, their heft, their ...smell.  I am unabashedly old-school)

Houston boasts a number of book stores that provide ready access to "the Usual Suspects."  There is probably not a best-selling author that I have not accosted and slobbered over.  I occasionally have my wife and children accompany me, but usually I'm one of the huddled masses, clutching my newly-purchased treasure, fawning and gushing compliments like a star-struck teenager.  I teeter on the edge of becoming a groupie.

However, one of my primary haunts is a small book boutique, located in West University Village (in the shadow of Rice University) called "Murder By The Book." They specialize in murder and suspense literature.   MBTB is my definition of the perfect book store; a muffled, musty slice of heaven-on-earth.

The staff at MBTB is almost comically stereotypical in their quirkiness.  Yet, for years, the store revolved around the Assistant Store Manager; a 30ish gentleman named David Thompson.  David was the ringmaster for a menagerie of bookish nerds, would-be authors and mumbling introverts.  David was also a ready source for good literature; if David said to read a book, I would read it.  David introduced me to any number of my favorite authors.  I had champagne with David and Kinky.  I explained to David why Robert B. Parker was this generation's Hemmingway...and I had Vince Flynn agreeing with me.

Suddenly, last fall, David was felled by a massive heart attack.  He was found by his wife; another book store employee.

While I didn't attend the funeral, I did send a brief note to the family. I was among thousands who feel that the world is a little smaller without David in it.  He was the type of soul that could describe a gruesome murder scene and make you giggle with anticipation.  David loved what he did and (ever so gently) changed the world by his presence.

I was reminded of David just this week.  I have just purchased signed 1st editions of both James Lee Burke's "Creole Belle" as well as Lee Child's "The Affair."  These are both superlative authors, and I would expect that both of these books will eventually find there way onto the big screen.

Yet, what struck me was that, coincidentally, both books are dedicated to the memory of David Thompson.

As someone who has wrestled recently with thoughts of his own legacy, I can't imagine a more fitting epitaph.  Live on, David!