short stories. other things.

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to begin i'm temporarily peeved that my browser appears to have eaten all the tabs i saved on it from last night. i accumulate quite a few over the day, and the interesting looking ones or the ones i am just about to look at stay open for a while.

i was chatting with someone once and managed to relate a quote or spout off some fairly specialized information, and they didn't know why/how i'd had that particular thing at the ready. memorized? no, many many tabs open. a holdover from an old job, is as far as i care to get into that. (another time, it's certainly an entertaining tale here and there.
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i've really woken up to short stories all of a sudden, recently. i've always liked the form, and it's contributed heavily in making grace paley and dorothy parker two of my favorite authors. i would say it's hell loving dead writers, but their stories are good enough to re-read many times, as i have. (having not quite the budget i'd like to have for books and a sporadic at best relationship with libraries for some reason. [note: it's because i often have a problem with how they're curated. no offense intended to librarians, and i'm sure that i feel this way because i have not looked hard enough at the selection.])

but often, in the past, tho i've enjoyed reading them, there felt to be something poignant about short stories' brevity. grace paley's stories kind of make up for this because they're also kind of poetry, a series of epic poems in which i can imagine the same narrator, or similar. and dorothy parker's are so often about me- or to be more correct this little incarnation of me that hangs out in part of my brain. the dread, the clumsiness, the self consciousness, the monk trapped in junior high school- knowing there's so much more, laughably infinitely more, and yet subject to the ridicules of closed minded Others.

for my current (unfortunately adult) circumstances, i have work, and an apartment with people who like to be fed, well and often. i like to cook, so this is not such a big deal, but it does cut into my reading time. i sneak it in, as i have this art/craft habit and get itchy hands if they sit still too long. therefore, short stories have been my balm.

short stories are inherently a twisted little thing, having taken so much longer to write than to consume. a little block of aged cheese, gone in a blink. a carefully mixed and hand shaped piece of chocolate. gone that quick, as soon as it's in my mouth. well, best to consider it gone, as i generally let a nice piece of chocolate melt on my tongue, and that's sort of a private thing.

and happily, i can speak from experience this week- having had a non-professional, non-compelled writer's block (meaning i can write non fictionally about a topic and do so reasonably well or clearly. yes i can write clearly, not a drunken camel's walk across the harshnesses of the page. believe me.) this writer's block having lasted since my partner was deployed, since 2007. that year, i wrote so much that i think i broke something. some circuitry, over loaded and stressed wiring finally cracked. but i was able to dream up and write down i think two little ditties this week, and of that fact i'm well proud. i won't worry about whether they're good or not at this point, it was just nice to get them out.

but output requires input. it's a nice feeling to return to a familiar pasture- your shit having broken down and nourished a newly green corner, she same old dandelions along the fenceline. that quiet spot under the tree where you can lock your knees/hips/ankles and put your head down and rest for a while.

i hope to remember this kind of remedy for burn outs in the future.

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