Pick Up

I am a human being. I am not an AI agent. This means I have moods. 

I was walking home from the bus stop today in a mood of disillusionment. Yet again I was ruminating on all sorts of things outside of my control. Will the stuff I write ever be picked up? An agent, an editor, a publisher, beta readers, the mythical critique partner (or partners) who could constructively point out areas to improve and at the same time we encourage each other onward and forward: all of that seems hidden. A paying audience that reads my work with enthusiasm lays further away, dispersed and concealed. 

I mulled that over then imagined a lich, but not an evil one whose powers of resurrection and restoration arise after building a phylactery. I pictured an incredibly devoted and detailed-oriented wizard, well-dressed always, whose clothes put him back together after he died. He was restored to health by his wardrobe. Wardrobe here does not mean the piece of furniture. I mean his extended ensemble of all his fashions ever purchased or gifted or possessed. The Clothes Make The Man.

My disillusionment vanished in a snap.

Back to writing! This next story will be a hit, I am sure of it.