Should authors keep their old stories in the attic or the basement?
The basement is secure, tornado-proof and such. Safe for tall, tortured tales.
But the attic in my mind has old, thick-paned windows, dusty from the misspent years. Moonlight can slip through, casting strange, fresh light on crooked, overworked plots.
Yes, I think my old stories live there.
I need to go up there soon.
Soon, but not today.
See, there’s a coward living at the bottom of my attic stairs.