Writing Screenplays, Satire and Novels

Coming Soon

Taylor Paul was living the life of a blues rocker celebrity—sold out venues, his band about to be on the cover of Rolling Stone, adoring fans, a comfortable seat at Studio 51. The premire guitarist of his time, his poigant lyrics and searing solos had made his band the driving force in rock. He came of age when he met Allie, a slim redhead with a spitfire personality who made his life worth living, until he found her in bed with Johnnie P, the bass player for the group. Now, he spends his days drinking and his nights playing to the drunks of the changaro’s in the backwaters of Mexico. He was utterly lost until a mysterious young woman found him, alone and desolute. Blues DeVille tells the story of Taylor Paul, how he fell from grace and found his way back. Look for this exciting work from S. Wilson Dutcher this coming Christmas.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Frank Minton walked down the street toward Starbucks. He wasn’t surprised to see Elliot Swingle, a man on a mission to buy a pan, or Wanda Westhead, a woman worried about how fully she filled out her shirt. No, they were just a few of the usual denizens of the coffee emporium. He was surprised to see a giraffe sipping a caramel macchiato next to a gazelle. It was at precisely that moment that Frank decided to go on a walkabout, the sort of journey that Australian Aborigines do when they live in the wilderness to trace the history of their ancestors. It was for this reason that Minton reached the edge of the world and learned, to his surprise, that the answer to everything isn’t “42” as the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy would have it. No, the answer was much more simple. And with that, he turned from the edge, having confirmed that the world is, in fact, flat—as any sensible person knows from simply looking around, and began walking back. Join Minton as he comments on his experiences, sometimes in prose, sometimes in verse, and sometimes in something else that only faintly resembles English.

FROM THE BOOK

She sipped her coffee, looked around and enjoyed the scene in this quiet place.

She fitted in; was in no hurry. Indeed, she seemed almost ordinary,

except for her color scheme—it must be said—was decidedly red.

Red shoes and reddish hose, cardinal skirt and scarlet shirt,

ruby earrings and cherry gloves, crimson cami and crimson coat

and,

we must note, her nails were red as well.

As she sat there quietly sketching, her look was very fetching

especially to this wolf!

Did I mention me, the wolf?

I sat alone, nearby, forking at a bit of pie, ignoring the gazelle with racing stripes,

contemplating the sky.

I said, “Say, don’t I know you? Haven’t we met?”

a standard intro, a standard set of words to begin with,

a standard set of words to sin with.

“No, my lupus-istic friend, I think not. I am a Leo and I’m single;

I kid you not, I love this place, I’d not replace

this tranquil spot,” she smiled her most vivid smile.