A friend of mine once said you're not a real writer unless you have a discard pile. Whether that's true or not, the fact is that my stack of throwaways completely dwarfs the one with the keepers. And yet there's always been this third pile, full of things that kept quietly tapping me on the shoulder over the years. While they would never quite

A friend of mine once said you're not a real writer unless you have a discard pile. Whether that's true or not, the fact is that my stack of throwaways completely dwarfs the one with the keepers. And yet there's always been this third pile, full of things that kept quietly tapping me on the shoulder over the years. While they would never quite jump up and say "I am something," neither are they Nothing. So I have decided to give them their own little stage here, and let you be the judge. Some are new-ish, some less so, and some over a decade old. Some may get the full studio treatment one day, some may not. Some may not even be finished yet. But here they are, naked as can be; my inklings. Make of them what you will.

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