my life is a short story; the kind with distracting vignettes set on the page for the reader to forget the purpose and the objective of the tale. i walk through my days hoping there will be the enlightenment at the end to bring all the pieces together with clarity. my fear is that it will be something that needs to be read over and over before the merit of the story is found tucked away in the words and i will neither have the time nor energy to review the events providing illumination to the value.
perhaps it is the coffee that is the thread between the panels of this banal quilt of my stories, from the first cup i ever enjoyed in a crappy diner on cottman avenue before i knew that rye bread could be toasted, to the cups every now and then that make me catch my breath when it is brewed with excellence?
i saw yesterday a note that required i write a short story. but my memory does not reveal the reason why. i can recall the parameters and in all honesty, i have no idea where to begin this one. if truth be told, i had thought about taking something i previously written and clipping it enough to meet the requirements. still cannot remember the reason why i was reading i have to prioritize and complete an anecdote of less than 5,000 words in the next two weeks that is neither a part of a bigger story, nor featured in any other media. ??
and at this point i know that whoever is reading these words understands that this is one of those vignettes that distracts from the work that should be coming from my fingers.
today the sun is shining and there is a breeze blowing. i'm completely broke (financially) and broken (emotionally). i feel like the only way to stick my pieces back together is with the golden rays of the sun and just keep truckin'
today, i'm going to live the short story instead of writing one and hope that in the end i can remember why i drew the picture of whatever i encounter today on the page.
perhaps it is the coffee that is the thread between the panels of this banal quilt of my stories, from the first cup i ever enjoyed in a crappy diner on cottman avenue before i knew that rye bread could be toasted, to the cups every now and then that make me catch my breath when it is brewed with excellence?
i saw yesterday a note that required i write a short story. but my memory does not reveal the reason why. i can recall the parameters and in all honesty, i have no idea where to begin this one. if truth be told, i had thought about taking something i previously written and clipping it enough to meet the requirements. still cannot remember the reason why i was reading i have to prioritize and complete an anecdote of less than 5,000 words in the next two weeks that is neither a part of a bigger story, nor featured in any other media. ??
and at this point i know that whoever is reading these words understands that this is one of those vignettes that distracts from the work that should be coming from my fingers.
today the sun is shining and there is a breeze blowing. i'm completely broke (financially) and broken (emotionally). i feel like the only way to stick my pieces back together is with the golden rays of the sun and just keep truckin'
today, i'm going to live the short story instead of writing one and hope that in the end i can remember why i drew the picture of whatever i encounter today on the page.
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