Eric Kobb Miller and His Writing Space

When I retired as a dentist, I laid down my drill for a quill to pursue my lifelong dream of writing. After swimming upstream in saliva in a dark, confined space, for so many years, I was eager to find a writing space that was bigger, brighter, and dryer.

I found it in a nondescript neighborhood on the other side of town. It gave no signs of warmth or welcome. Peeling paint created the illusion of a pock-marked exterior, and the unlit neon sign in the window pushed me away, rather than drawing me in. It was the kind of place you happen to be in front of when a sudden deluge of rain forces you through the door. Inside, I immediately knew that I had found my special writing space – mine, and mine alone.

It is a playground where I recreate the past, embellish the present, and dream the future – changing names, not to protect the innocent, but to entertain myself, and to generate enough smiles and laughter to power on. It is a place for storytelling. Like jigsaw puzzle pieces, stories and poems come individually and incomplete, and in varied shapes, sizes, and colors. They are like whiskey shots and beer chasers, but they do not follow any particular sequence. Instead, they come unannounced, at their own time and pace. The flashing pointillistic images begin to connect, one at a time, and then in clusters that coalesce. Like wine bottles on a rack, or whiskey bottles on a bar, the separate images fight to be seen and to stand out in the crowd. Each bottle holds a memory waiting to be remembered, a dream waiting to be lived, and a life waiting to be told. What was real is forgotten, the facts change, and the stories mix together in a stream of fanciful consciousness. Life becomes fusion fiction, and it is lived in the groove of my own bullspit.

My writing space is my imagination, and I call it “Spit Toon’s Saloon.” Together, we travel in lock-step, pounding the pavement as if it were a laptop keyboard. The world around us is Hemingway’s moveable feast, laid out on serpentine pathways that I always have a mind to follow.

But then, reality predictably gets in the way: responsibilities, interruptions, noises, and all those other attributes of life. So, I then have to move to a nondescript study upstairs in my house, close the door, and pour out all the words that are rattling around in my head.

Eric Kobb Miller is the author of
Spit Toon’s Saloon
Rinnce and Spit Toon, Proprietors
Sad Songs and Funny Tales on Tap

Twitter: @SpitToonsSaloon

My stories and poems number more than several mouthfuls of teeth and have appeared in many different publications. It has been said that “if you haven’t read Spit Toon’s Saloon, you don’t know Spit.” As I am aka Spit Toon, reading the book will fill in some of my biographical blanks.

Now that I am out of the mouth and into the world, and no longer swimming upstream in saliva, I try to make waves and a splash as a literary humorist, an egregiously underrepresented and unappreciated genre. And truthfully, I can disrespect that.

I am always asked why I write. The answer is very simple: I need a place to put all the words in my head. To date, I haven’t used up all the space available, so until I do, I plan to continue tapping away.

Recently, I was honored by the respected women’s wine group — Thirsty Girl — as its first “Thirsty Guy.” I’ve been told by some that this is just tutu much, but as one can learn from Spit’s sagas, my connection to wine, although not distinguished, runs deep.

But enough about me — that’s not what bios are for. Instead, allow me to offer you a Spit Toon’s Saloon wry, whole grain toast for ever brewing smiles and rosé filled wine glasses through which to view life.