A short story doesn't have to be long...

You know, I got demoralized recently in a writing class. My classmates were all writing the same sort of ambitious, pat, naturalistic text. I felt like a fix out of water with waaay too much oxygen in my gills.

So, I've been looking for some reassurance in the pages of my favorite authors. I've been looking for new forms and interesting perspectives. Perspectives not set in the Victorian Age or some ill-defined "future." I've been looking for my characters again cause they got lost in the criticism.

Wouldn't you know I got to reading a collection of shorts by Neil Gaiman and in breezing along his words I came upon the shortest short story. Then it hit me, a short story doesn't have to be long and a novel doesn't have to answer everyone's questions. Better still, it's a shitload better with a lot of questions left in there. I've been all worked up about "do people understand" when MY readers don't have problems understanding. They want the world and it's my responsibility to create it.

While I'm at it, I have to satisfy myself because I'm my first reader. This is not to say I'm going to go jumping, both feet and super enthused, into classes. I don't like other writers that much. I've met one in three classes whom I enjoy and he's busier than I am with his day job. Great guy, though.

Instead, I'm going to keep on with what I'm doing. Mainly researching escort services and learning about that industry because it intrigues me. I am content to be easier with myself and less inclined to listen to others. They had their chance to impress me with what they had to say about my writing and it didn't work out so hot.

Hooray for art!

Angel of Mercy

owdy Readers,

It's me, your fearless writer! I don't have much to say, just finishing whining and crying a bit. That's no way to start a blog, but if I can't be witty I'll settle for being honest. I had to pull out of a party today that meant a lot to me, but you know, I got issues and shit. I don't have issues, I have volumes.

I'm sleepy. Dang. Pain medication has kicked in with a vengeance. Let me write a short dittie:

Claire didn't see the bad day coming, which was saying something since she was a certified psychic. On a typical morning she could throw a set of shells or pull her tarot cards and ge the gist of the day's goings on.

But this morning there was a ring at the doorbell and when she opened it, eyes blinking rapidly at the light, there was a man in a black uniform who held out a package and smiled with his mouth and threatened with his eyes.

Claire couldn't think of who would send her a package so she didn't feel his hand around her wrist as she reached out until it was too late. The man with the threatening eyes walked into her home, her sanctuary, and turned his head right, left, then center with deliberateness and malice.

She found her voice to ask what he wanted but the only reply was that smile. The smile that in any other environment would incline the witness to think "oh no, not the woodchipper!" But Claire didn't know of woodchippers so all she could think of was "oh no, not the Death Card!"

He met her eyes as her knees buckled. "Claire," said Death Card, "It would be better if you remained standing."

Claire took the high road and fainted...