The Dirty Birds had a scheduling conflict, so the first post on our new book Self-Editing for Fiction Writers, by Renni Browne, will begin tomorrow.
In the meantime, have a bit of young Glyn. I don’t know if this will make it into the book. still struggling through PTSD and not always making good choices, but this part’s a bit of a laugh, so I thought I’d share it.
“Get where, Gram? Are you kicking me out?” This would be the third time his family had dumped him on someone else.
“You’re going to Yale. Glynnie, you never go anywhere, you little house-mouse. No, you need to see the world. I’ve booked plane tickets since you don’t like travelling Underhill, and we’ll find you a house or an apartment or a swinging bachelor pad—whatever you want.”
“But, Gram…” He knew it. He’d gone too far with the C4 last week. Still, he could hardly regret it; it had been a glorious explosion, and one exterior wall had been small recompense for the spell Geneth had put on him the week before. Glyn still fought the urge to fall to his knees and bow every time his cousin came around—part of why he was hiding in the tree this afternoon.