A friend called story writing the easiest thing in the world– select a few good writing topics, he said. Add a few good writing ideas, and you can write a book. Though what he said pissed me off a little, because anyone who has written a few stories would tell you it isn’t that easy.…
But first he had to take out the .45 bullets, the cold, sharp, dead things. Not his weapon of choice on the flowers he picked up, the boys who fell for the hush, the softness of his voice, never recognized him for who he was until too late. Youth was stupid, that way. No grown man would have entered his car.
I wonder sometimes if I’m as dirty on the inside as I feel on the outside.
But the X-ray shows I’m merely broken.
Each of them can be anything, a straight line, a dusty horseshoe, an exploding seaweed, a violent flower, a taxi upturned, a vertical road, a bashed-up song, a thought without a ladder, a dancing boat, a frequency of being, an empty corridor.
But I have a character in one of my stories now, who is an award-winning author. Since I can’t get the story to close the right way, I thought I will free-write as her. In character, so to speak. And boy SHE has a writer’s block, because this is what came out: