Trying to Start a Novel, Again
A beginning of a novel that may or may not survive
This is not me—this is another person talking. A character.
I really hate the smell of weed. I don’t hate it the way I hate the smell of patchouli or Ciara, a perfume from the 1970s that my great aunt wore. The smell doesn’t make me sick, and it doesn’t disgust me — the smell of pot terrifies me. When…