Writing is cathartic; like gardening, painting, photography, music or sculpting which leads me to thinking God gave us the ability to do those things to overcome times of grief, melancholy, times for reflection, or amusement. Those things are gifts; not so much the ability to do them well, just the natural desire to do them. In many respects a noble endeavor.
A short story has been started and grown to novella proportions (a little over 20,000 words at present). I know the ending, which will likely change. I know how to get there, but not sure how long to take.
It will start appearing in a day or so. It’s called The Sixth Man – it has nothing to do with basketball.
I don’t want to post anything that is not complete, but I want to start posting something. As an example I’ve introduced parts to a plot that should have been referenced earlier. As I post, those things will be rewritten and added, but I’m concerned about later episodes. Anyway, that’s my problem.
Let me tell you a little about The Sixth Man; he does not know who he is and sets out on a journey to find out.
Hope ya’ll enjoy.