In the hall, bones were scattered around the hall.
Sweet baby Jesus, somebody shoot me now. How did I manage to revise this damn thing so many times and still miss that &#*@ing sentence? The only (scary) possibility is that I added it myself in the last polish.
Which only proves to me that I should stop calling them "polishes." Maybe they should be "smudgings."
Want to hear about something else that still causes me problems? If I'm writing about a still night, when a character is still looking out a window at the still in the backyard, I still have trouble have some trouble with word echoes.
Still.
Still still still still.
Argh.
There's only one thing left to do: I'm going to write my memoirs. I think I'll start with the years I lived in the Soviet Union after I was adopted by bears and hidden from Bolshevik soldiers in the back of their cave, and then with the Hell's Angels in Southern California, making big bucks as a meth dealer, beating up cops and buying two acres of cemetery on the installment plan.
Of course no one will know that I'm making it all up. No one ever finds out about that sort of thing.
