I just wrote a short story. Only a few hundred, maybe a thousand words. I did it longhand so I’m not sure exactly. I’ll let it sit for a few days and then type it up. I feel a bit odd. At one point in my life — well, okay, from ages 4 to 22 — I wanted to be a writer. And then I started dating a burned-out professional writer and he completely killed my desire to write professionally. And then I had my breakdown at age 25, and since then every attempt at writing fiction has felt artificial. It felt nice to write this, though. Rather like getting on a bicycle for the first time in years, knowledge still there but rusty. I have no desire to get it published. I may not even share it with anyone except the Valkyrie. But I wrote it, and it felt good, and that makes me happy.