First Lines, 10/13/13
First lines of the novel I won't be writing today:
"He was a widower. A widower... That word — three empty syllables, three pennies tossed into a well — never attached to him, as a self-identifier. Widower, like a used band-aid. He struggled against it, like man versus crocodile. Widower.
Since the accident, he'd heard that word three times. 'This is Paul. He's a widower.' That unwelcome descriptor that left so much unsaid. This is Paul. He is lost, brokenhearted, alone. This is Paul. He's incurable."
— Damien Willis
October 13, 2013