Monday, April 21, 2008

Even The One Who Writes It

A few things. My blanket has two holes in it, has grown thin as the felt the kids use. I don't eat soy sprouts so who are you trying to hurt here. The table I had as a child is still sturdy, holds up my computer, while the one we bought for our wedding is already falling apart. What do you want me to dream about?

Who is he? Hi, I'm Mr. Third Person. And, by the way, he has a fine pair of shoes - he only goes barefoot by choice. Yet if something happens in the writing that's effective - define effective - hold on, I will - then what's wrong with it. Effective = writing that surprises even the one who writes it, that doesn't feel like jamming too many clothes into one drawer.

Ticks falling like rain in certain forests. A telephone call with a warning. Smoke from yesterday's fire lingers but where. The last log literally evaporated on a bed of hot coals. That's how you cook outside, said the scoutmaster through and around his rank cigar. That was one party I didn't get asked back to. Yet I love pumpkins, though carving them scares me. Two days ago the scored body of a dead mouse dropped by the oldest cat made me dream of severed fingers.

Say, have you ever thought about writing horror? I write about family and local history all the time (he answered).

No comments:

Post a Comment