
Act One
Stanton Fenwick wrote a book. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t deep. It was just a simple farce, decades behind its time.
He worried his book would be misunderstood, that the world wasn’t ready for early twentieth-century literature.
Another concern: Stanton didn’t know how to write.
But he knew what he found funny, especially dry comedy. So he tapped out a few chapters.
His wife hated them.
He knew he was onto something big.
(His wife hated all of his favorite comedies. She preferred to escape into fantasy.)
Continue reading “Fenwick Appears”