And suddenly, I feel this immense sense of freedom—as if the entire thing is going to suddenly pop out of the ether in one big mass.
Why? Why did I sit and stew for years about how to start the thing? Now, it is possible, my story’s trajectory may have been too larval and unrefined those years ago. And I’d like to think that—instead of turf off this revelation to the simple, explanatory prognoses of constipatory cognitive insecurities.
Those thirteen words have opened the wardrobe for me. And now, the quasi historical carjacking along the Mississippi 61 Interstate is about to go vertical.
Stand by. An author may be among you.