We Write on Water

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No one had bought his poetry - his words were all swept away into the sea of self-publishing obscurity.

Ron couldn't count the number of rejection letters he'd received in seeking a publisher. His anger and frustration at being ignored was growing to the point that his blog had devolved into rants against the publishing industry. So, he'd decided that he was going to quit his writing 'career' at the end of the year. The stress of the upcoming holidays, the dreaded trip to visit Sara's parents, and the backlog of orders at his day job only worsened his attitude.

Ron had walked out onto Madison's icy Lake Mendota on a freezing winter night to blow off steam, only to slip and crack his head in the process. He was shocked to awaken in Elizabethan England on a mild spring morning. Had he hit the ice that hard - was he in a coma? Dead? Encountering a prominent literary figure of the time made Ron yearn to either learn more from this person or to break free of the persistent hallucination.

Suddenly he was back in 21st century Madison. His time for reflection while in England - and the writings left by a mysterious visitor who had been living in his house while he was away - ended up forever changing his attitude toward his life and his writing craft.