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Fiction is dangerous

was the message I got when my dad got up and walked out of the reading.

I’d never liked fiction anyway… I mean, as a process.

Probably because I was writing the truth but just changing names and places: Squirrels stood in for deer. Chet for Herb, my grandpa.

That and I was bad with endings.

How could I reach a conclusion if the plot was still unspooling?

 

 

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