unwriting runs in my family. my uncle told of a trunk of writing he burned on top of mount tamalpais, and when he died he left a few desultory haunted notes. my dad told of a novel he put in the bottom drawer of the chest that he threw away to make room for my brother. god's true. he told me of a death diary he started, but i never saw a word.

i started to think he never intended to complete the novel, then he told me it never existed. he told me he was just a corporate word whore.

why do we have to make these personal myths about writing, or  The Great Unwriting, he told me he thought i had a novel in me? was it his unwritten opus? i don't think i do, and his suggestion may have squelched it anyway. if i had it i think i burned it at the roots. better to show an ugly photo of myself in a walrus shirt handmedown from my nephew with a ridiculous antler on my head in front of an overpriced painting purportedly depicting saint anthony in flames. or maybe i should just shut up and write that novel.