"...an argument-fetus that had been aborted before it was given a chance to breathe..."
Remind me never to attempt works of fiction as gifts. A gift is usually time-limited -- you have a certain deadline before you must hand the gift to the recipient, and that ends up limiting the length and breadth of the story, usually. All this, of course, from someone who swore that he would not be writing another story again.

Women are weird. When they wish it, they make you feel much, much more important than you actually are. Fortunately, I have my pages of manuscript and a most critical eye turned inward to guide me out of that kind of trap. It is only after you've read through your own passages -- both in your head and out loud, enunciating and exaggerating every word in order to feel the way the words fit together (and to try to bend those fittings out of shape to test their durability) -- that you realize how much your writing sucks. I have far to go in this craft, much too far. I wish for no false accolades. And I most certainly do not wish for the disappearance of my writing to be called some kind of "great loss" by anyone. Because it isn't. Actually, scratch the "women" above and replace it with "readers". That'll do.

Besides, it doesn't look like I'll be stopping my writing anytime soon. This one gift remains. 6000 words down, and I'm not even half done telling this story.

If this piece breaks 10000 words, I will expand it to novel-length and submit it for publication.

Thank you. And damn you. You know who you are.