When I moved out of home, I dumped my folder of writing in the bin. At the time, I deemed it too precious to share and I was moving in with the boyfriend. I didn’t want him to read it. I knew that he wouldn’t appreciate it and yet, I moved in with him, anyway.
I watched a movie the other night and the dog ate the guy’s writing, which reminded me of my own wasted papers. Such forlorn waste.
My book is on tour this week and I’m petrified of figurative bulldogs lurking around figurative corners. But I’m not letting the dog eat my homework, anymore. Nor should anyone else let anything stand in the way of their creativity. Paterson recovered and so shall the rest of us.