This is another blast of flash-writing. It’s not really fiction –sorry about that. Well, I’m not sorry. It congealed after sitting and talking with another writer. In a coffee shop no less.
Anyhow, I know this isn’t a new idea, but it’s one I handily depend on. It feels confessional, though it has all the revelation of learning other people also spit when they brush their teeth. So, here. Look at this.
Sometimes, I try to write like I am reading aloud from a book to an audience. The effort is put towards making someone, you, perhaps, believe there is a world of information that isn’t observed. I try to imagine where my pauses and breaths are, so you think that I am thinking in these moments. It barely works, but by the time the idea jumps the gulf between me and the audience, I am hoping that they’ve brought something to the table too, a meaning and history of their own that makes words like “constellation,” “trundle,” and “honky” more bloated and weighty with importance. I did it again with “bloated.”
I hope if I leave space, you –my reader (of my work), who must exist for this to make sense—will assume that there is something filling the yawning gap between you (my reader) and me, and I hope you think we both know what it is. And my hope upon this hope is that you’ll like my work (and me) more for it.
I hope you think this is an excerpt.