I'm writing again, but not here, and in pen rather than on screen. On the front porch of my sagging hovel of a brain self-hatred sits like a tired old man with a shotgun loaded with rock salt on his lap. The old bastard is squinting at my approach, but I do see a gesture of recognition and--could it be?--relief, when he stops rocking. Hello, old man.
These are the first writers to whom I am turning for help: Padgett Powell, Flannery O'Connor, Raymond Carver, Ian McEwan and Joseph Conrad.