that well-hung-over look

My prose was flaccid, a little crass, and lacked clarity and structure.

My characters were about as developed as a third-world country and my analogies were as sophisticated as a bottle of Manischewitz Extra Heavy Malaga wine.

So I holed myself up in an old saltbox house in New Hampshire.

Gained weight, and discovered Zen Buddhism, Marxism, and punk rock.

I was searching for an identity.

Anyone could see that.

But I was so charming about it, that most people forgave me.

When I finally got the courage to begin writing again, this was the only thing I could come up with:

"I'd always been a little behind with losing my baby teeth. My last tooth came out in 7th grade. First-period English. We were watching a movie. I worked that molar until POP! Out it came. I placed it in a napkin and left it behind."

It was gone.

My facility for language.

For forming ideas that assaulted the imagination and offended Goths and Gen Xers at open mike nights.

The gardens had all turned to weeds and the seeds had moved on to more fertile soil.

I went into the kitchen, fixed myself a bowl of Cream of Wheat, folded in some Grape Nuts and a sliced banana, and drizzled some honey over it.

I recalled my final conversation with my father, in which he called my friends "moral degenerates, dope heads, drunks, and psychopaths."

Ironically, it was on All Saints' Day, which was fitting, considering we were both martyrs.