I discovered the post that went up just before this (“Rambling”) saved in draft form, from June 28th. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I wrote it, what direction it was meant to go in, if it was a dream scene or if it was a short story snippet or what. But I like discovering little, detached notes like that. Story bits or notes or who knows what. It’s like looking on a stranger. I can no longer remember the context, so it’s just a strange little artifact.

I’ve been braving my way through the Clarion West Write-a-thon for the past five weeks or so. This is the final week. I’ve met my goal every week–5000 words or more per week–but not all of them have been towards so-called worthy causes. Some have been silly bits of fiction meant for the entertainment of a very few, only, and not ever to be shared on a broader stage. But many have been towards a novel which–well, quite honestly, probably isn’t material I’d think of as my “best work” or even possibly a professional work. That said. Am having a fantastically fun time writing it, or I was, until last week, when I think I’ve just gotten a bit burned out.

Also… I get constantly disappointed by my wordcount. Just when I think I’m writing a fantastically long adventure, I discover I’ve only hit barely 25,000 words. Well… I suppose long is relative. That, or I need to learn how to wander a bit. Or something. My stories always seem to be the bare minimum they need to be. Maybe I’m just more inclined to be a short story writer? Who knows.


She kneels beside me. I think she wants to say “don’t cry” but maybe that’s just what I want her to say. Her small hands touch my face. They’re cold as ice, as space, as I imagine death to be. I want to say “but it hurts so much,” but I can’t. Maybe we’re both trapped in the same dilemma. Ghosts. She literally, and me, well, I don’t know. Soon enough I suppose, if not yet.

Funny how you think you want to die until you’re fighting for breath, fighting not to. Is it the body or the brain that gets this way?