Second, was the volume of kindergärtners’ collective shrieks proportional to the physical volume of their lungs. If there was a supreme maker, a four-year-old’s ability to “squall,” as Mr. Black put it, was surely to make up for their diminutive statures and various physical and mental incapacities. Point, Intelligent Design.
Years back I had an idea for a story. A novel about a boy, his dog, the end of the world. I did some relatively quick story breaking and wrote about 60 pages of poorly structured, self-seriousness that I knew was going nowhere. So I quit. Writing. I quit writing. Anything. About 9 years later I picked up the idea again.
Please see this as proof that I wrote something that I sort of liked [~900 words] >