They say a pictures’s worth a thousand words, but I rarely find that to be true. Oh sure, there’s Eduard Charlemont’s Harem Guard,but really, for a reader, can any image could be worth a thousand words? And if I feel that way from merely reading them – a passive stranger wandering around another’s carefully constructed world – how much more do I feel it 29 days later, after having written 50,000 of them?

Of course, a picture is a done and complete thing which I am not ashamed to share with you, and neither of these things can be said about the sorry mess of writing that has now earned the endearment of “my book.” Totaling over 100,000 poorly spelled and hastily chosen words, it is more like Frankenstein’s monster, half formed on the table, than anything else. The point of view shifts like the colors of the monster’s skin, from scene to scene and back again. And, more pressing from a critical standpoint, the plot drops in and out of sight like the float on a fishing line once the pike has gotten a hold of the hook. It’s rather embarrassing how pleased I am with it. Thank you everyone, for your encouragement to continue writing, and for giving me a place to gloat about it. Maybe in a year or two I’ll be able to present it whole and worth a thousand pictures.