Unreal. Just scrounged through some large envelopes to find one big enough for a mailing. Slapped a label on, and stuck my mail inside.
What’s this? I pull a single sheet of paper out, handwritten on both sides. Read it halfway through before I begin to recognize just where it’s from. My novel, written seven years ago, a scene I must have scribbled down and then allowed to enter into type.
Odd. This very same novel that made me start four years ago upon this journey into higher education. Odd too, this very first day of the Creative Writing: Fiction course.
Oddest yet: The words I barely can recognize as my own, the style so different, had they not been in my handwriting, I would gladly have denied them.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology