I once wrote a whole story out of thin air right here. right on a things like this, it was called, what was it called. I was sitting at my father’s shop, the autobody shop, there answering phones, I forget why, I don’t know if he wasn’t well or not, and that’s something I should remember because it could account for the type of story I wrote of revolution and language and torture and love. I think you could call it those things. it did get published after all and someone out there remembers it even though I don’t remember the name right now, it might have been “then” but no, that’s another story and I worked on that one I think, I don’t even remember, but it seems a lot of them write themselves, just sort of pour out, but that’s romance. sure there lots of stops and gaps and pondering with the pen to the lip and all that, but a rhythm was there from the start and this story I was first writing about, the one I wrote in my father’s autobody shop, that one I clearly remember as just coming out and going and going. like it was already there. there’s editing afterwards of course but that’s to be expected, I’ve always understood that part of it, the tinkering because you can’t ever really leave it alone. but I remember that there wasn’t much to do with it, considering the story it told and where it was, and I remember deeply being in awe of it, that it came from someplace I could not yet know, nor would I ever know.