(no subject)
A short story is like a pal at a bar. Not when you're writing it—most writers talk about that, the struggle, the craft, etc etc. Later, when it's done, it's a place you visit that's familiar. You have a lot in common. Like any friend, not everything it does pleases you, and some nights you'd rather not take the phone call. And some days the phone doesn't ring.
But it isn't your pal, it's your gang and your hang. The conversation is stimulating; more than that, it's satisfying. It takes you somewhere you need to be from somewhere you had to be. It's exactly the right place for it, too: this is where, and when, these people would say those things.
You replay the soundtrack. Fast forward and rewind. Linger. Hesitate before the payoff, knowing you'll be back again. It isn't enough. It isn't the last door you'll walk through, but it is on the way.
Some days you bring a screwdriver and tighten a hinge, or a cloth for the glass. Most people notice the door, but you remember when it was unformed. Some say it's a child, that you birthed it, but no. It's a piece of art, not a living being. It doesn't grow or evolve except by your hand, but it can change that way—if you can, if need be.
But it isn't your pal, it's your gang and your hang. The conversation is stimulating; more than that, it's satisfying. It takes you somewhere you need to be from somewhere you had to be. It's exactly the right place for it, too: this is where, and when, these people would say those things.
You replay the soundtrack. Fast forward and rewind. Linger. Hesitate before the payoff, knowing you'll be back again. It isn't enough. It isn't the last door you'll walk through, but it is on the way.
Some days you bring a screwdriver and tighten a hinge, or a cloth for the glass. Most people notice the door, but you remember when it was unformed. Some say it's a child, that you birthed it, but no. It's a piece of art, not a living being. It doesn't grow or evolve except by your hand, but it can change that way—if you can, if need be.