Writers are a lot like fishermen. Lobster fishermen, to be exact.
We litter the seabed with fetchingly colored traps of every shape and size hoping a stray crustacean moseys into our grasps.
Yesterday, a Homarus gammarus finally wandered my way.
I wrestled the 500 word clawing beast to the ground and hauled his little a** right into The Clockwise Heart.
I celebrated the end of my dry spell by downing a Rusty Nail (that’s Scotch Whiskey and Drambuie, mates) and a plate of kippers.
Post-note: “Not really” to the kippers. “No comment” on the Rusty Nail.