Seemingly of their own volition, ideas do inexplicably frustrating things. So does my husband. In a small house peopled by cynics, the Turk and I share no delusion that we’ll flow through life without being tempted. But we understand that the pretty boy with expensive eyebrows (“painted by god’s paint brush,” the Turk says) comes with his own set of cragged kinks that could take years to uncover.  The Turk and I have jagged edges that fit nicely together. I need to apply that to my story.


Why story ideas are like marriage . . . )


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