An unfortunate creature, given to melancholy and guilty of wasting his best lines on inanimate objects. Occasionally nudged by the Muse into something vaguely coherent and quite possibly good. But what use is any of it without a reader? Yesterday I was looking for a hard copy of an old manuscript. In doing so I found another manuscript, older still, that I had no memory of writing. None. Scary. Also a little disappointing as it wasn't that great.
Anyway, time to dust things off and make myself known.