My brain spent the night composing the beginnings to various short stories. It reworded and reworked various vignettes all nioght long. Two in particular were quite good, at least in my mind. As usual, all my brain composed was the beginning of the story. I have no idea what to have these characters do. What is the story? I have a whole notebook consisting of beginnings of stories I have written over the past thirty-plus years. There is never a middle or an end. Do you ever dream about words and writing?
Somehow I cannot escape the notion that my aborted stories are a metaphor for my life. Things start off promising and then kind of fizzle. It is sad to think I peaked in the third grade when I was designated head projectionist and master of the filmstrip machine. Ding...
No comments:
Post a Comment