that well hung-over look

My prose was flaccid, a little crass, lacked clarity and structure.

My characters were about as developed as a third-world country, and my analogies were as sophisticated as a bottle of Manischewitz Extra Heavy Malaga wine.

So I holed myself up in an old saltbox house in New Hampshire.

Gained weight and discovered Zen Buddhism, Marxism, and punk rock.

I was searching for an identity.

Anyone could see that.

But I was so charming about it that most people forgave me.

When I finally got the courage to begin writing again, this was the only thing I could come up with:

“I’d always been a little behind with losing my baby teeth. In fact, my last tooth came out in 7th grade. First-period English. We were watching a movie. I worked that molar until POP! Out it came. I placed it in a napkin and left it behind.”

It was gone.

My facility for language.

For forming ideas that assaulted the imagination and offended Goths at open mike nights.

The gardens had all turned to weeds, and the seeds had moved to more fertile soil.

I went into the kitchen, fixed myself a bowl of Cream of Wheat folded in some Grape Nuts and a sliced banana, and drizzled some honey over it.

I recalled my final conversation with my father, in which he called my friends “moral degenerates, dope heads, drunks, and psychopaths.”

Ironically, it was on All Saints’ Day, which was fitting, considering we were both martyrs.

Reviews

[robert harris jr]

I believe we're writting twins me and my father were related by fertility only no spiritual awakenings
it took years for me to forgive him and find happiness

[Philip Gaber]

I'm in search of that as well. Therapy begins Sept 2, so perhaps I'll find some solace soon...or later...just as long as it comes. Glad you found some peace, RH. It's always handy.

[robert harris jr]

your on the begining of a new you trust me I know

[Philip Gaber]

Thank you...