My Albatross

Different marinated olives on marketAdjective-creep.

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.

Until tomorrow…


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