Hot Off The Grill

I was the Tin Woodman. Or the Scarecrow. Or whichever one of those Oz fuckers didn’t have a heart. At least that’s what I’ve been told. But that isn’t really the issue here, at least not now. The issue is that if it weren’t for an overwhelming desire to have a yellow tee shirt I would still be breathing, still be narrating from the realm of the living. Instead, I’m in this weird, pseudo past tense disaster of a novel, trying hard to keep my verbs in order. And I still don’t have a yellow tee shirt. Or a heart.


Literally the first paragraph I've produced in two months. The start of something that I can feel slowly working its way to the surface. Something big, something fast, something like a shark or a whale or whatever. Not sure where it is going, and it seems like there or three of four separate ideas swimming around in these sentences, butthat'll all get worked out later. Hopefully.