I remember when this friend of my first husband owned a 1957 Chevy. Not just any ole Chevy, it was one he had purchased in 1957, and it took him a lot of years to pay for it. When he passed, we had the funeral, and all and his son inheirited the Chevy. He polished, and cleaned, and waxed, and both the car and the second owner grew older, and he never wanted to part with the Chevy. He died at an early age, and he alway claimed the two things he loved more than anything else in life, was reading books, and this car. He was burried sitting at the steering wheel of that 1957 Chevy, and the rest of the car was a few books, but the rest of the car was filled with his very own copies of books that he had written. He never had a place like this one, where he could have taken the time to write the stories that he loved so much, and so they went with him.
Just imagine the size of the hole they had to dig, to fit that car into, and down ten feet... Write, Write Write. We love to read, and we can see what you see, as we read the described scenes, and cry when the main character cries, or if something happens, and laugh and rejoice, when something goes right and all is merry and bright. "Write, Don't wait to have to go down with your Chevy"....