I wrote a story in 2002 that still nags me. It tugs at my hair like a little kid. I find myself opening the document, staring at it, wondering what I could add or delete to make it into what I think it should be. If it was on paper, it would be dog-eared and rumpled, wrinkled, folded in half after spending too many days in my bag. It would have doodles in the margins. It would be typed in a legible serif font.