It's been an age since I posted anything, at least six months. Reasons will be forthcoming, but one resolution has been to include a 10 minute writing exercise into my day. The (quickly) edited results shall be posted here with the tag 10 Minutes of Writing. Here's the first.
“I had been feeling like a million dollars,” he said.
At the age of thirty-four, James Reader had found himself in a hotel room in the west end of Glasgow, alone and unemployed. At noon, check-out had long past and yet he still clutched to the bedclothes and the trapped warmth of his body. Inadequacy and loathing were his fastest qualities, there from waking and not leaving until the opening of a second bottle of wine, and so he clung to the trapped warmth. In the inert silence of the hotel room, it was all he could expect from himself.
“Definitely,” he insisted, “a million dollars.”