Like a mangy beast, the manuscript shifts and growls as I comb the knots out of its fur, careful around the wounds.
Pick fleas and crush them with my teeth.
Smooth, but leave it wild and living, uncivilized, uncultured.
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Sometime in the night, this happened.
Yes. Those are my first five pages he's chewing on. It doesn't hurt.
When was the last time you read a book that kept you up too late, made you laugh, made you sweat and made you say "NOW WHAT?" and made you sad when the ride was finally over?
Me neither. That's what I'm writing.