I’ve written about ten short stories and each of them, except for one, took a long time, like finding every grain of rice in a pot of sand. Back in 2011, I think, or maybe 2012, I began a short story titled Dust, wrote about three pages at the time, came up against the wall and put it away. It’s lingered in my story file since then. Last week I dug it up out of its paper grave and wrote some more of it. It’s now at 3,947 words and I may finish it soon.
For nearly a month I was at a loss with it, particularly a scene I call the “house blessing.” I couldn’t write one word of that scene although I knew some of the action, I didn’t know its actual purpose, what was to happen and where it would take the story. Any number of things could happen, but I needed to know why and what for. What stopped me for the past couple years was once I’d written those three pages, the well ran dry. The brain said, “That’s all, folks!” Pretty much like Porky Pig.
I’m thrilled as a bunny in a newly-grown garden of lettuce to have managed thirteen additional pages, though I’ve no idea how long it’ll be.
I love reading short stories; I love the short story form, its tight structure containing character, conflict, and resolution all in one tidy package. I’m determined to master the art of the short story.
Not so much June gloom this year. The days have been gloriously sunny with lots of blue sky; the nights have been cool and summer is sweeping in, blue, white, and gold.