I once took a nap on a commuter train, and while I was asleep, I dreamed an entire short story, absolutely intact. I awoke from my dream, grabbed a pen, and wrote down that story in one fevered burst of inspiration. This was the closest I’ve ever come to having a pure Ruth Stone moment. Some channel opened wide within me, and the words poured forth for page after page without any effort whatsoever. When I finished writing that short story, I barely had to revise a word of it. It felt right just the way it was. It felt right, and it felt strange; it wasn’t even the kind of thing I would
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