#286, Portland, OR
I spot an old hand-painted sign through the holes of a chain link fence, and it's like I'm a kid who's just heard the Mister Softee ice cream truck. Paint it on a garage, throw in an abandoned parking lot into the mix, then drape some telephone wires overhead, and well, that's like you just dipped it in chocolate. Yes, I have been focusing on my off-line writing, and yes, it appears I've skipped one too many square meals along the way whilst furiously revising and overcaffeinating. So if I just throw some numbers at you and yell, "Bon appetit!" just be patient with me. I'm finishing a novel. It's what happens.