The late great Bill Webber, President Emeritus of New York Theological Seminary, once told me that the closest a man comes to experiencing giving birth is writing a book.  Therefore, I wasn’t surprised that it took me nine months to write my first book, Black Shadows and Through the White Looking Glass: Remembrance of Things Past and Present.  This novel I’m working on though, The Summer of Capri, I feel, will be premature.  She wants to be born.  I am writing furiously.  First thing yesterday morning I typed the six pages I had written the previous morning.  Ever write a story in the first person and you come to embody the character, giving birth to him (or her)?  (Aren’t these characters we create composites of us and everyone we’ve ever come in contact with?  Or who we want to be?)