You remember writing a short story would fit in the next chapter like it was born there and . . .
You search in a mad frenzy to find it, mine the details, and are stunned at your past art and . . .
No way can you use it. Sure it was made for being put in the novel but old stuff cannot be used by rule of law. No way can you think something this good up again.
The run of fevered imagination drops dead upon the floor. You might as well quit Nano now. How can you accept anything less than found perfection?
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