Kafka told his publisher, Max Brod, to burn it all. Gogol actually went through with it himself. So did Bulgakov. The act of destruction that somehow…Somehow did what? How is that the next step? Is that it? Must I really? Throw everything to the wind? That’s the step that will get everything rolling?

The thing is that I’m too scared. Too simple a fellow. I cling to everything, the resarch and drafts, even the crap annotated by my profs, “What sophomoric crap!” I know it’s no good, that I need a flood or a fire to get this thing moving and get that punk of an agent to take notice.

That’s why I’m doing it, right? It’s all phony. I just have to announce it right, post it as a caption with the dead animals. That’s the breakthrough, the moment that I’m suddenly on tour recounting the moment as the silly anecdote it’s supposed to be. Wasn’t that crazy? What was I thinking? Where’s my lighter?