There is one post I wrote this past year that I sent to my mother because it was written for her mother (for all you non-geneaologists: my grandmother). She (mom) never commented on it. Not once. I brought it up once and she said that she had seen it. Still no comment. No 'good job.' No 'that was touching.' Not even a 'you got it all wrong.' Nothing.
Cry me a river.
These stories I write aren't sturdy enough for re-examination. They're houses made of plaster and paper - you can shape them anyway you like, barely knowing even the simple law of gravity - they are monstrous and unsteady over time. Comic in their desire to startle, hysterical for their eagerness and lack of guile. However, I find it hard to laugh at my own need for beauty and romance, no matter how horrible the results of that are. But it is easy to sigh. Few things are sadder than the truly monstrous.
Plagiarized horribly from Nathanael West.
I can't pick out five stories for you Stu. That would require going back and reading through them and, to be frank, the past is a minefield.
Or maybe I'm just a drama queen and I like writiing and there's nothing too horrible about it at all. I think about my past posts and they come together like a strange place I've just come home from after a long disorienting trip (and you were there, and you, and you were there too). I will never again look further than my own backyard when searching for my heart's desires. There's no place like home - and by home, I mean whatever I'm going to write next.
This internet is a big muddy river, never the same from minute to minute; a river too cold and deep for me to go diving down into, looking for relics and fossils. Let the river have them, I say.
No, I won't go back. But I will write soon. I promise.
