Okay, I've finally taken the lj plunge! Despite my trepidation and fear of rejection! So befriend me! 'Cause it's scary to me!
At any rate, this turned out to be the impetus for me to join up. I couldn't resist the drabble challenge, it kept going round in my head till I got it out.
So all sweaty-palmed and anxious, here (and there) I am.
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It’s the detail she remembers. Lipstick fleck reflection in the chrome counter. Toast crumbs on his frayed sleeve.
“The usual, miss.” His coarse voice, hacking laughter. Like she was the drifter off the street, and he secure in his work world. She wasn’t even sure she knew his usual order. Someone she could hate?
On his way out, his eyes suddenly liquid. “You’re the only family I’ve got now, you know.” And she did know. Someone she could love?
Today they haul him off, body cold but not yet rigid. “You knew him?” “What? Oh. No.” Someone she could ignore.
I saw your drabble and wondered who you were! (Because all the GWW drabblers are buffistas, right?)
I'm Ro-Astarte on LJ, Liese.
Welcome!
debg here, and you're friended, you bet.
That's a wonderful drabble.
I'm having an I'm-not-worthy moment, which I should be used to. It happens basically every time I read one of three authors: John Crowley, Robertson Davies or Michael Chabon. Today I'm rereading Chabon and wondering why I think I can write.
That happens to me about once a week.
I'm having an I'm-not-worthy moment, which I should be used to. It happens basically every time I read one of three authors: John Crowley, Robertson Davies or Michael Chabon.
I've only read Davies, but that happens whenever I read Lorrie Moore.
Or, you know, any time at all.
Or, you know, any time at all.
Usually, I'm a pretty confident writer. I'm generally secure in the belief that I'm damned good at what I do.
But Kavalier and Clay, or The Rebel Angels, or Little, Big - I start considering a career in something else.
She moves her coffee cup, imprecise little twists.
deborah, this reminds me of a little scene that came to me a few years ago, one of those times where the words float around in your head and you have to get them out. I've never gotten around to expanding it into an actual story, but I thought I might as well post it here. (As it turns out, it's over two hundred words, so it's not "drabble"-length. Though this drabbling sounds fun, and I might join in soon.)
Oh, like I said, this was years ago (February 2001, to be exact). I've since gotten better. Does looking over your older stuff make anyone else groan? (Okay, on actually looking at this again, I don't think it's that bad. But it's been so long since I wrote it, I don't know if I can pull the story out of it anymore.)
On a Precipice
She stands as if on a precipice, peering out over a vast expanse. A wave of tension washes over her, and she recalls long summer nights, warm, in the sand. He never said goodbye. The wind blows, whispering in her ear, "He'll be back," but she doesn't believe it. The wind lies to her. It always does. Ever since she was a little girl, she has never trusted the wind. How can she trust something so capricious? A thing that can be both calm and gallivanting in the space of an hour. No, she does not trust the wind. She trusts only herself, and on this precipice, even that trust begins to break down.
Putting her hand to her head, she looks down, seeing only concrete. No danger of falling. The world around her is as empty as her coffee cup, still stained with his memory. She can still taste him. Why is it so quiet? There is only the prevaricating wind, and the sound of her soft breathing. Her heart beats, and she is glad.
A step forward, into the vast expanse that isn't there. The concrete is rough against her bare feet, but strangely satisfying. She gains a firm footing. The wind dies down. She turns her head, first left, then right. In front of her is nothing. The world is a quiet place.
She runs.
I don't think there's anything wrong with that at all; I particularly like that line about her cup still being stained with his memory. And that line about the world being a quiet place - once the wind dies down - is a poignant statement about interior noise, and how we hear.
As for looking at old stuff? It doesn't make me groan, so much as it makes me blink. I wrote a novel at fifteen - a really really really bad novel, and I can look at it and think, whoa, I was really 15, you know? I mean, I had fifteen like a broken heart, full technicolour. But if the novel was bad, it was also reallyo trulyo me, at fifteen.
