“Organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it is not all mixed up.” —A. A. Milne
I wrote my novel by the seat of my pants. I created characters I was in love with, and I let them tell me what they wanted to do. It was easy to “organize.” There was a plot, and I rolled along, adventure after adventure, discovering the way as I happened upon it. Organization was holistic, organic—as easy as breathing.
“Melissa Studdard’s high-flying, bold poetic language expresses an erotic appetite for the world: ‘this desire to butter and eat the stars,’ as she says, in words characteristically large yet domestic, ambitious yet chuckling at their own nerve. This poet’s ardent, winning ebullience echoes that of God, a recurring character here, who finds us Her children, splotchy, bawling and imperfect though we are, ‘flawless in her omniscient eyes.’”
Hot day. Brilliant sun. It was difficult to wear the hooded robe. It
was a hated artifact; but it would have attracted too much attention not to wear it. After all ever since the treatment was proscribed by law, it was a criminal offense to anyone who missed a treatment to go without it.
And NC1847 had gone without a treatment for a number of weeks. Under normal circumstances this would have had dire consequences, but NC1847 had friends in the Ministry of Youth and the official explanation was that he was hunting in a remote are of the Yukon where treatment centres were not available. This was lie, but a lie, that was at least believe by someone, although with skepticism.
NC1847 had missed a number of treatment before, but never several weeks at one time. The ministry of Youth and the Youth Police had already opened a file. They had already marked it in their minds, “Final Chance.” And indeed it was NC1847’s wife who persuaded him to submit to another treatment. She implored him in the name of his unborn children, his dying mother, and his long dead father. He did not believe any of this, yet his sense of duty and his confusion of what his role in life should be, made him consent. It was a forced consent, fraught with guilt and fear, and he hated himself for being such a coward.
Privacy & Cookies Policy
Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. This category only includes cookies that ensures basic functionalities and security features of the website. These cookies do not store any personal information.
Any cookies that may not be particularly necessary for the website to function and is used specifically to collect user personal data via analytics, ads, other embedded contents are termed as non-necessary cookies. It is mandatory to procure user consent prior to running these cookies on your website.