Have you ever created something (not, for example, a new human, although that’s very impressive, or a spreadsheet, but something artistic*), and then put it aside for awhile, and then revisited it and thought, “I really like that”? That’s how I feel about this story, which is my first published short story.
Short stories have never been my writing genre of choice, although I absolutely love reading them. (Favorites among many: Ray Bradbury, Anthony Doerr, George Saunders, Helen Oyeyemi, Saki, Dorothy Parker.) This one, however, burst onto the page all at once, and pulled me into a beautiful state of flow. And so I feel very tender towards it. I may never write another short story. But I am really proud of this one.
I am not going to reproduce it here, since I realize that driving traffic to the publication is a way to thank them for publishing my work. To that end, I would be so grateful if you would visit the page for the issue, and I hope you discover many pieces of writing there that illuminate your day!
* This is confusing, I realize, because human beings can be artistic. However, I really don’t think that parents can claim to have made them that way. I welcome your best arguments on this, but we may have to agree to disagree. Naturally, on the topic of whether a spreadsheet can be artistic, I will tolerate no dissent.
“So what happens in the story?”
“I wish I knew. I care about her, as a character. I want her to go leaping over the fence, but that will break her happy heart. I want her to keep floating in the gentle current of her present life, but her ragged, traveling heart will smolder and burn relentlessly if she does. And so I cannot begin to write, because I cannot stand to start a story I know I cannot finish.
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But we (you) know how it finishes. Right?