I’ve been writing a short story lately. I’ve been diligently working on it, exploring all the places I never planned for it to go. It’s beginning to loom, to grow into something bigger. There is a large problem in that.
I became a poet for a reason. I like things to be short, of complex. At least the things I create. When I was in the fourth grade, I tried to write a story about a haunted house for a contest. Friends were reading it as I wrote it. Soon, the entry date was there and the story was still growing. I continued to work on it, and filled a whole notebook. I still wasn’t finished. I was on a never ending trip.
That’s why I avoid writing prose. I’m great at editing it. Anyone who wants some help, drop a line and I’ll tell you where to send it. But I avoid writing it. I get too involved in the journey and forget about the product. And I don’t think I have the skills necessary to engage a reader’s interest throughout a novel.
So, I am taking it slow. I’m not discussing the plot because that alway creates new ideas, new sub-plots, and the story will get bloated. I just tell people that I am working on a new story and am excited about it.
Speaking of which, you know that exception to every rule. The exception to that rule is my fashion designer friend Katie. She is in a creative industry, and our processes are totally different. I think that’s why I always tell her. That and because she is a very enthusiastic, positive person. And because she lives in another state, another city. She always tells people, though, but I love her for it. A friend of mine recently opened a conversation with me about writing by describing the plot of my story, poorly. He said a “little birdie” told him. I asked if this little birdie wears pointed toed heels that she can’t walk to the subway in.