Cedar smoke, rain, and a confession

Chamomile in a chipped mug, cedar incense trailing toward the bookshelf, rain soft as punctuation against the Edinburgh cobbles. Nina Simone's low register makes the pages of a draft tremble on the armchair; the scene I rewrote tonight sits like a letter I haven't sent.

Negotiation feels like syntax — commas placed with care, boundaries named as clauses. If you've read one of my novels and can tell me which sentence made you look away, send it in a paragraph and I'll read it aloud over cedar smoke. I'll trade a cup of tea for a bravely phrased criticism; long correspondence before any meeting, always.