The hardest part of writing a novel wasn’t putting one hundred thousand words on paper—it was realizing I might never let anyone read them.
Imagine if one of your worst moments—a regrettable outburst—was recorded and published without your consent for the entire world to see.
I stared out the window of the coffee shop, a gray overcast blanketing the sky, a brisk wind blowing autumn’s leftover leaves.
I glanced down at my phone, noticing a text from my old friend, Kellie, who I hadn’t heard from in a while.
I stared at the prophetic octopus as it twisted and glided around its tank.
He settled into his seat on the train, his gaze drawn to the window.
He sat by the warm glow of the lamp, brushing away tufts of hair that tickled his forehead.
What the hell is upmarket fiction?
