It used to be that I was known for little else except writing, me with my notebook compulsively in hand, scribbling on the bus, at lunch, wherever and whenever an idea surfaced.
Today when he said that, I had to stop and think about when I last put pen to paper and came out with a piece of fiction. And it would really have to be as long ago as NaNoWriMo 2006, for which I managed barely half a dozen pages.
I went digging on my hard drive at work for things I had written, found the original typed-up version of "Embodiment", my NaNoWriMo 2004 piece. I re-read the whole thing, fifty thousand words of roughest draft - plot discrepancies, inconsistent characterisations, egregious typos, all poured out in one three-week marathon of scrawl - in one sitting.
And you know? For what it is, it really isn't bad at all.