About Where I Am, Part 1: I Wasn't Doing Anything.

I wasn't doing anything when they came to get me. I was in my home, minding my own business, quiet, non-intrusive, all the things they say they like someone to be, and they came, and took me away, and brought me here.

Then I had to talk for the longest time to this man who was trying to prove certain things about me, certain things that are not true, that I have shown before to be untrue, but they weren't interested in that, not at all.

After a while, the man, who claimed to be a doctor but who is not like any doctor I have ever seen, because he is utterly without compassion, for one thing, said, "But the problem is you are telling me a broken story. Your story does not make sense."

I could not believe it. This was the problem? In other words, they were holding me against my will for being a lousy writer?

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