"A spare, sharp memoir about the speed with which a comfortable existence can be blighted by grief.” —Bee Wilson, The Sunday Times (London)
“We want you to write something for our anthology, the Malignant One explained.”
“He wrote a letter about the baby carriage problem to the president.”
“Was this maybe an extremely dodgy situation for me to be in?”
“I ran into my father three years after his death. I was on my way to the library.”
“The reason I am lonely, the amoeba thought, is that I am totally alone. So it had sex with itself and made another amoeba.”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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