I finished my first short story in the womb. It was written on a papyrus-like weave I constructed from the few bits of fiber and hemp my mother swallowed as a teenager. I had nine months, but like most writers, I procrastinated. I knocked the entire 42 pages out during 16 hours of contractions. It was an emotional time for both of us. I was delivered at 9:38 P.M. on a Friday and the short story came at 10:30. They did what they could but were unable to save it. Too many run on sentences, disjointed thoughts, and the grammar was (understandably) quite horrible. These days I write as often as I can, preferring for some reason small, enclosed spaces like my closet. I usually have the feeling that something really, really big is about to happen as I am finishing a story. And as soon as I finish one I always spin around, having had the feeling that someone is about to slap me from behind. I'm not sure why. Someone told me once it was Freudian behavior, but I have never smoked a cigar, ever.