Most fiction writers are introverts revealing their interior world to the outer world — word by word, line by line. I am one of those. I reach into the dark corners of my mind to
I pull a small rectangle of paper from the crinkled package and smooth it between my yellowed fingers. A fragrant bag of tobacco is tipped and its contents tapped into place, filling the open gap.
J.R. Tolkein wrote this is a great poem that speaks to that which soars far beyond our limited judgments and assessments of occurrences and stages of life . . . . . . All that