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SITTING UNDER MY tree in the dog bowl, I spent the next two hours writing: sketching characters, noting story arcs, drawing incidents. I had seven, twelve, fifty stories, poems, novels, screenplays auditioning themselves in my head, spinning like fruit on a slot machine.
I couldn’t be bothered to look around, to see little dogs chasing each other, couples in love, the sound of children in the playground above. Every time I felt distracted, I saw Seneca’s face, I thought about Dad, I remembered the hospital where I’d found myself alive, the nurse who left me alone. I felt indebted to these experiences, somehow, as if conscripted to wring out and examine each feeling and thought.
Page after page, my pen, my hand weren’t fast enough to capture the clogged volume of material spilling
