When I got home I wanted to brag to a friend. So I ran to the garden to pick some produce to take to her as an excuse, planning to “forget” to take off my medal before I arrived.
As I cradled the ripe vegies to my chest, something trickled down my ribs. The medal had jammed into the Brandywine tomato, drenching me in juice.
This is what it’s like inside of my head when I’m writing. One idea will careen into another part of my life, and the messy, startling result will become a story.
You have no idea how weird it gets in here.