Unfortunately, this year, we didn't have enough newspaper to do the job, so I used pages a rough draft of my next novel, The Limongello Syndrome instead. Here I am anchoring manuscript pages with dirt clods to keep them from blowing away before I cover them with dead leaves.
This is only a draft, and my agent now has the finished version; nevertheless, these pages represent years of my life spent writing this.
As I write this now, I am struggling for some further comment: a pun or witticism about the effect on the tomatoes, the nature of fame, or something. But I have nothing more to offer than to show you the picture itself.
