The last time I moved, everything was in a rush. I had been unemployed and my new job started just a month in the future and half a country away. I slung things into boxes and unpacked, haphazardly, on weekends. In the decade since then, life has been a blur. Lately I’ve been trying to find things. While sorting through a stack of paperwork, I came across a box of old stories. Really old. Some of these tales go back to when I first started to write fiction. Most of them are embarrassing, but when I recall how young I was, they aren’t as embarrassing as all that. One of the stories I remembered writing as a ninth or tenth grader. My English teacher told me I should try to get it published. I lived in a small town where no one had connections to the publishing world, and where nobody really knew how to get anything published. Where you’re born does make a difference. The story was in a pile of papers I found....
Blog of a struggling writer.