I tapped my pen to the pad of paper on my scrivania, reception at a slower – but stronger – than human pace. My eyes focused on the lines, each one so clear, so vibrant. The acidic smell of ink from the pen poured into my nostrils, flooding them with solvents, pigments, dyes, resins, lubricants… and whatever else ink was made from. Chemicals.
I wanted to write a book. Not a book that would go on to be published; just a book. A fictional story with fictional characters who I controlled. I didn’t know what I wanted the book to be about, exactly. I also didn’t know where to begin. I just knew I wanted...
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