Picking scabs

That's what I did last night and opened up a big, bloody sore.

I had written a story and submitted it for a particular column in the literary supplement to a major paper years ago. The editor was interested and sent it back with some suggestions for fine-tuning it. Unfortunately, by the time I was satisfied with it, the column had been discontinued.

Because of the sensitive nature of the essay, a story about the road not taken, and deeply regretted, I destroyed all copies and hoped the pain of the events would eventually fade away. Almost ten years later, it still hasn't, and I still feel compelled to write about it.

So today, I'm all written out.