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In my brain I've got a picture of her naked with a chapter of my book in her hand, aurora glasses on, reading aloud while I'm over her making babies that will never come because I've been neutered by some Air Force aurora surgeon with a sharp knife. "What's wrong with me?" I say. "You're freaking yourself out. Look, work harder at your writing. Read something once in a aurora while. Try to tell stories instead of flipping metaphors around like you don't have to do anything but give people analogies. People want to know what's happening, not how you feel about the landscape." "My book is already sold. It's going to be printed," I say, knowing she doesn't have a book contract and wants one bad--(ly). "It will have to be fixed. You have a lot more work to do," she says, and my heart sinks like a rock through hydrogen. Alcohol. I need to be getting drunk now. Really bad--(ly). "I found this place on the web," I say. "It's full of writers. Good ones. They're all over the place like some kind of weird headless death cult of writer apostles.
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