You tell yourself a story. You tell it well. You tell it with a copilot who is on autopilot. It’s your inner editor conditioned by experience, family, and peers. You receive reality from this editor. Sometimes, you walk down the street and sunlight is caught in your hands and your hair, but you don’t know it; you’re somewhere else thinking of what you haven’t done. Sometimes, you jump forward to a time that doesn’t exist, and tell yourself you’ll be happy when so-and-so loves you; the car behind you honks because the light has been green for 10 seconds. You hope one day to shush the inner editor. You hope to participate in reality as it’s happening. Sometimes it won’t be pretty. Sometimes it will be pretty. Always it’ll be the truth.
— creative nonfiction | Tommy Tung —
— photograph of author | Lee Corkett —
Fiction Mostly 