Sometimes I read what I’ve written and I think, how could you do that?
The Bone Trench novel is pocked with very brief flashbacks of the deaths of the bones in the trenches. Despite their brevity, they are intense. When I re-read them, I wonder how I could write scenes filled with such sorrow.
I’ve just finished revising a short story told from the point of view of a young man who becomes an arsonist. It breaks my heart.
Tonight, at an open mic event, I’ll read a story that, to me, is terrible in its sorrow. I wrote it, I’m choosing to read it. How could I?
Maybe the answer lies in my experience of sorrow. Maybe things seem chilling to me that others shrug off. Maybe I don’t write such difficult things. Maybe I’m too sensitive to sorrow, even that which I create.
here’s to creative synthesis . . .