I wrote a short story. Except it is about 35 thousand words. I have no title for it. Well, actually, I have a working title that is really quite terrible. But aside from the working title that doesn’t really work, I am not sure what to do with it. It started as a short story, and now it is just an awkward length.

Also, this might be a good time to mention that it is rather terrible. Again, I am not a creative writer. But for some reason I keep creating things, kind of like all of my art projects gone wrong. Ceramics kept too long in the kiln, scarves knitted unevenly, and numerous pieces of jewelry that best remain hidden.

I briefly toyed with the idea of posting it piecemeal on this blog. One chapter a night sort of thing. But really, I don’t think you understand just how horrid this thing is. I mean, my competition would be Stephanie Meyer. And I would lose.

I know the answer would be to just bury it in the depth of my hard drive and forget it exists. Or even to delete it. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to do that. I spent too many hours on it and compulsively feel it needs to serve some sort of purpose.

So… Sean… I am sorry, but you will have to be the recipient of this dreadful thing. Your reading it will fulfill its purpose, and then, if you don’t happen to gauge your eyes out, we can have tea and discuss.