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.