On the tales told and untold

November slipped away, melted like an ice cube in a glass cup at the end of summer. And what did I write? A piece, a monument piece, for a departed grandfather, filled with the lores of my small family. Something which needed a home on a page, yes. But there was still so much more that should have found homes on pages in those 30 days. Confusion, depression, rejection, inattention, and more. These also needed a home in a page, crouched in an obscure occurrence somewhere in time, somewhere on the planet. But thus far, only the heroes tales emerge. What of the truth?

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I have discovered new authors who tickle my mind. I want to be like them, be them. Tickle other people's minds. Oh.