Other items within the writing room catch my interest: a set of rare, red leather Agatha Christie hardbacks from England; a Nippon tea cup filled with a variety of Waterman pens; Joyce Carol Oates novels here and there; a closed, burgundy leather—real leather, not the faux leather sold in drug stores—journal on the surface of his desk. Many pencils. A number of gold paperclips scattered here and there.
I decide to make myself at home (not that I haven’t already) and sit down at the desk, pick up the journal, and thumb through it. The leather feels warm against my prints. Half the journal looks scrawled in with wavy lines of writing. My fingers stop on something that resembles a story (or part of a story) titled Tool Belt. Again, curiosity overtakes me and I lean back in the chair, and sta
