I need a lock on my computers. Opened only with the magic words, "Then what?"
No problem with the writing, with the going on and on in great big leaps of words that embed themselves upon the page and settle in to sleep. I’m but a story starter. Am I that uncurious of nature, so dulled by life that the end no longer matters, so weary of the journey I wave wildly out the window and then promptly take a nap? Even with some little experience in the shortest forms of fiction, I seem contented with the first few licks of each single icy flavor, forgetting how to nibble at the cone to reach the melted cream that’s gathered in its tip.
I need to finish what I’ve started because, of course, there will always be another place to go.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology