While working on the novel last year I stopped writing short stories. I need to crank out a few and send them around. Fortunately, my unfinished bin offers a wealth of material.
On Monday, I found an old horror story I wrote for an anthology a few years back. It was rejected, then rewritten, then parked, then forgotten. Yesterday, I came across it in a pile of folders I call my "unfinished bin." After a quick read I concluded my rediscovered tale stunk like wino poo.
But there's plenty to work with. I need to lop off the first seven pages and start in the middle of things. And so I will...eventually. Don't rush me. I'm getting to it. No. No, I 'm not. I'm writing aimless post-filler right now. Okay. NOW I'll get to it. So long.
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