I am in the process of writing a story. Or a book. I guess a book. I just finished the writing and have edited it three times. It's a (barely) fictionalized memoir of my time with the young man who lived with me for two summers and how I tried hard to save him but in the end learned you can only save yourself.
I love this story but I know I'm too close to it so I keep stepping away and then coming back. This afternoon I thought to myself, "my eyes have read these words too many times and I need to find a reader who will be brutal with it."
I have no idea what to do with it now. So it sits in my google drive and I drink tea and watch the waning light of this January afternoon pass into dusk.