to read oneself

A story has returned from an unsuccessful sally into the world. For months, it only existed, for me, in memory. Physically, the story went somewhere and is now returned. Intellectually, the opposite has occurred.

It's not to be a stranger reading the story fresh. I recognize the words as my own. I've been thinking about the story and these characters for months.

I find a section that's thin, though I remember it as richly drawn. I realize I didn't take the story where it needed to go. I chickened out in the hardest scene. I imposed an ending. These truths come clear.

thoughts in preparation for a story

A married woman with several children goes alone to South America with a Christian group. She stays there for years and sends postcards home. The group is fundamentalist. Her family doesn't share those beliefs. The postcards are ridiculous but she is probably not aware of it.

Why did she join this group? What made her leave? Did she try to convert her husband or children before leaving? I imagine she slipped away without letting them know. I imagine her son's faith being killed entirely. Her mother dumped him for Jesus: that could make a person hate Jesus with unswerving fidelity.

Taking your ideas clothes-shopping, basically

I just read yet another "A Writer's Rules For Writing" piece. Heartily sick of that sort of thing. So here's mine, naturally:

1.) Have ideas. Think about them. Read some things related to them.

1A.) Optional: map your ideas with an outline, a word-web, disorganized scribbles.

2.) Put words in order. Let sit. This is key.

3.) Think about the ideas more. Do not read your draft. Be generous. Get excited.

4.) Read your draft. Make changes, additions, deletions. Be mean ("it's nice but is it necessary?").

5.) GOTO 3.

6.) Show your work. Consider the advice you get. Revise as you see fit.

7.) Decide what to do.

Now it's time for some poetry

I won't post poetry often, but it'll happen from time to time.

This place bleeds through itself.

Neighbourhoods blur,
turn cities into cities,
and we're somewhere other
than where we were,
like the earth is a magician
and we are its dove,
in two places at once,
tucked in the sleeve of the land,
waiting to be produced

—unlike the islands I've known.
The us-them shorelines
look like tyranny,
feel like freedom.
Islands are magicians

that won't do sleight of hand,
that won't saw you in half
then make you whole.

No,
islands are more into voodoo,
pinpricks and curses.