Bones in the sink, in the fridge, everywhere. Nibbled clean or boiled dry, some with gristle attached. I fondle them, abuse them. I caress stories from them.
I don’t know how my wife tolerates it—more than a hobby—a sickness. She encourages, points to a neglected specimen. “There’s a story here. Do something with this one.”
Character sketch corpses, plot diagrams…the bits and drabbles Frankenstein my novel.
Monday through Saturday—twice on Sunday—I sit at the computer and write another chapter. Bent over a keyboard, I type my hero’s journey.
One by one, I flesh out those bones.