Writing. It’s a chore. A brief rush of insight and creativity, and then … editing. The thought stream that spills upon the page like tipped ink blots out your true intent. So, to shape the block of incoherent, fragmented ideas, you carve, you craft, and then maybe you have a rough piece of work that someone might pay pennies for at a car boot or garage sale. It takes time, but it is worth it if someone enjoys your work. In truth, it’s worth if no one does. The stories are my children, no matter how malformed or monstrous they are.