Deflower

Here I am again with my stack of pages. All my notes are resolved, all the {more here}s filled. Why can’t I let go? I’ve done my best, haven’t I? I’ve written my little heart out. I’ve produced some work that’s ready to be seen—no bigs, dude. Books are written every day. Only no one’s read a word of this story but me, and now I’m facing the moment of deflowering. Which, as I remember, hurts. I’ve been writing and rewriting an email, filled with preemptive excuses and disclaimers, an elaborate...