I was birthed down a dry ravine, raised in the belly of a whale, and learned to write using ink imported from Decapod 10, a porcupine quill, and driftwood as paper. I read sodden texts found in shipwrecks by the light of luminous algae swallowed by the whale and the occasional electric eel. Music came in the form of grooved clay pots made by crabs scratching patterns onto whatever they could find. I have written countless short stories, a handful of novellas, and four novels, all to carefully selected playlists. The music is as much of a story as the writings themselves, and the time has come to venture out of my whale home and share these ocean-made mp3s.

Metaphysically, of course. I'm still in the belly of the whale, but it recently swallowed a laptop with a surprisingly strong wifi chip.

The whale's name is Maurice.

 
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