I waited for inspiration to strike before I start to write this piece, I waited and I waited and...I waited. While waiting, I skimmed the Wikipedia entry on Thomas More, Suzanne Collins' Mockingjay (and appreciated the marginalization of teenage angst and romance in it). I drank a caramel frappe that left an icky aftertaste. And then I found myself giving this column a title that is much like a prompt, because I needed a boost...a trigger. You can be the judge of whether the prompt actually serves its purpose.
This week's column is dedicated to anyone who has had to endure the misfortune of taking a workshop-based writing class with me. Do not call it an apology, though; call it a much overdue explanation. You can choose to believe it, or you can (hypothetically) cut it out, gleefully feed it to your shredder, then throw it in the dustbin with the empty diet soda cans and questionable looking leftovers from last year. What I do not know, does not offend me.