by David Seed
Twenty-five years ago, when the Bosnians were being slaughtered in the streets, I wrote this book and read it to a writer’s group. Recently, I found it in a box and gave it to Winona to get her opinion. She read it and got all excited and emotional. She even cried, a rare occurrence, and told me I didn’t know what I had. She said it was spiritual, and wouldn’t let me change it. I didn’t.