Last night, the rain blew onto a draft of my current story. I had expected the hardcopy to be still legible and the hand-inked revisions to smudge. The reverse happened; the ink for the inkjet printer proved soluble, while the fountain pen ink did not change.
Reality contradicts expectations often enough that we should never count on them; on the other hand, we should always plan to some degree. I expect my story to be inaccrochable. The story contains no naughty bits but will be unacceptable on different grounds. The events in the story really happened, more than once; however, they expose a patch of the hatred beneath many people who call themselves disciples of love. I did not write it with the requisite glitter in the style, preferring a stark narration of ugly events.
We'll see.
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