I should have guessed that some kind of cerebral embolism was going to hit me the minute I realized my writing would be up for active evaluation.
“Be yourself,” my wife says.
“That’s the part I’m afraid they’ll hate,” I say.
Nonetheless, I have plundered through a traumatic, off-season Iditarod and written a piece. I am sincerely hoping they think I’m a witty, rhetorical Anakin Skywalker and call it a day.
Oh yeah, I toned down the pyrotechnics a bit. I might be a literary Captain Ahab, but for now, I’ll hide in the pathos of his “pre-whale” nautical pursuits.
Just over a thousand words–and I’m in a fetal position in sackcloth and ashes. Oh, and I’m not beyond some reflexive oedipal thumb sucking if it calms me down.