He asked, “What makes a writer?” “Well,” I said, “it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge. – Charles Bukowski A few weeks ago, I stood beneath a dark blue and black sky. The wind was strong, and cold, and the river which lay before me was raging. I stood alone on the grassy embankment, with the bright lights of the city across the water, twinkling, and a tear in my eye. I was shaking. It was cold, much too cold, but that was only half the reason my knees trembled. The moon above me was bright, and the clouds illuminated below its pale white face looked like ghosts, out to remind the world that, hey – we are…