I'm writing in the dark morning hours of December 26th, and it's rather pleasant. A few days ago I was talking to my friend Dawn about the solstice and she said "But I like darkness...." and maybe she's right.
This weekend I am going to work on a short story, one of the ones where the idea seemed to fall out of the sky. A few weekends ago I visited Ginny in the mountains. She's a poet and I always read a lot of poetry when I'm up there....she has journals and chapbooks everywhere. The American Poetry Review, circa 1999, in a magazine rack beside the toilet, that sort of thing. Anyway, I was coming back to Charlotte on the Monday after the weekend, a little high on well-chosen words, and suddenly the idea for this short story came to me. Not exactly full-blown, but pretty much so, and I pulled off the road at one of those places labeled "Scenic overlook" and wrote the main idea down in my journal. Scribbed notes, so I'm not sure exactly how much I have, but I think it is a nice arc and that is what I intend to work on this weekend.
I love short stories. I consider them the purest American art form. I wish there was more of a market for them. Sometimes I think they're being weeded out like VHS or 8-tracks, that the whole word is being reformatted for novels.
But this weekend, I write.
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