My cell phone clutched in my hand, I looked unseeingly out of the skylight, which was covered by the gray icy fingers of rain.
“I am flabbergasted,” I said when I reached my friend’s answering machine. “I just read my brother’s story and it is better than the story . . . you know, the one I asked you to read . . . the one that took two years of studying story forms to write. Call me back.”
Gawd. This talent . . . this brother shook me to the core. I was the writer. I had experienced life. I had been a typesetter, a sailor, a technician, and a sales-clerk. All this life I had experienced so that I could write, feel the muse breathe down my neck and whisper in my ear. When I finally put pen to paper, I found that I must learn fiction. Fiction had a form. So I read the writing books. I could curse. “Nothing in fiction happens without a reason.” But, life is not that way. Take this my brother, who is more talented than I.
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