Writing. Just like everyone else
I have a little story. I tell it only because at the moment all stories seem to be so goddam fucking miserable, and this one is not. I mean, it’s not going to turn your life around or anything, but it does have a happy ending.
First, a little history.
I read Steinbeck again.
I’d left him lonely on the shelf for years, happy in the knowledge that he was and always would be my favourite. But the TV reminded me so sharply of Cannery Row, the favourite of my favourites, that I had to pick him up again after all this time.