While reading On Writing, I decided to investigate the remaining vestiges of my fiction work. Folders found in footloockers, dusty legal pads - I’m talking older, depression-fueled, William-and-Mary-era writing.
But there is a start to a story I can’t help but like. Yes, it’s an overdramatic, way-too-personal, masturbatory short composition, but there could be something there. I’ve decided to start working on it again.
