"Do you have a little while?" she asked.I nodded and gestured to my office. She was already seated when I got inside and hung up my suit coat."I screw...d up," she said before I could sit down."Yeah, I got that part," I said with a frown. "My question is: How badly did you screw up?" You've pretty well laid it out for me, so I guess you know," Elizabeth replied. She looked as tired as I did and she seemed smaller today that she had the day before.I paused before I answered."I guess my question is. When you write fiction, your imagination runs continuously, sort of like a hard drive that doesn't have a "sleep" feature. And inanimate objects get personified in a way that normal people would report to their shrink.Of course writers don't go to shrinks. They write instead, and all that garbage inside them pours onto the page, instead of in one of the Doctor's ears and out the other as he wonders what his lovely wife is going to present him with at dinner that night.I suppose it's therapeutic. More

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