The imperceptible, glacial-like growth of my descriptors the farther into a story I write.
No matter how “skin and bones” I begin a book, inevitably fat, flab and blubber attach to my writing style. By the end, my original modus operandi has disappeared into something, well, more.
This is the albatross around my neck.
I call him Morty.
He eats olives.
And feta cheese.