I’m at my parents’ house in Fitzgerald, going through boxes of my old junk before they move. I had forgotten about all the stories I worte as a child – there must have been at least two dozen I found today. They range from narrative novels about kids my age, to horror stories and even a few horror films. All of them awful – but I remember they were a lot of fun to write. And even thought I don’t think I’d ever want anyone else to read them, I can’t throw them away. So I put them in another box so I can forget about them again, and rediscover them the next time I move.