Last week, I tripped into frenzy. Popcorn popped in my head; I heard nothing but static on TV. My jaw worked nonstop. I had a bitter, acrid taste in my mouth, like I’d just licked a battery then sucked its juices.
Between last July and two weeks ago, I finished the second draft of my novel. I re-read it with sinking dread. At the end of the story, my wo…
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