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.

9 haikus

Very impromptu, I'm going to convert another story idea I had a year or two ago. Cause it was about two guys, not at a table, sitting across from each other. But haikus are fun, and nine is my favorite number.

Two men sit, drinking,
their wine glasses cupped like tea.
There is but silence.

The first examines
his adversary. He is
his Tyler Durden.

Who he wants to be
but can't, due to weakness, and
lack of fashion sense.

This sophisticated
fucker, with his retro garb,
the style of today.

Between the two lies
an empty space, filled with what
they, in fact, call lies.

The adversary
is his own protagonist.
Now he sips his wine.

Confident bastard,
he runs his hand through his hair
and looks at his foe.

What a foe is this!
Erstwhile friend is more like it.
This wine has aged well.

He crosses his legs
and then he says, apropos
of nothing, "Checkmate."

Hey, thanks guys. I suspect addiction soon come. It was really fun to do.

I realized, though, that I didn't actually follow the rules. They weren't actually sitting, so much as there. And not a table but a counter. And not happening all at once, but in memory. But still. Fun. And that's not many words. First draft was twice that length.

SO is thinking about coming out to play.

I definitely have that same reaction, deb, to certain musicians. There are those that make me want to play, and those that make me want to go sit in a dark, dark hole with only my own mediocrity beside me.

Poulter-Cow, that's really nice. Good stuff. I like the 'between them lies' section. It's a concept I've always loved. Dave Matthews' "Space Between" and similar. The intangible but utterly real thing.

Polter, that reminds me a little of 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. Very nice.

edit: I'm not really awake yet. All these drabbles are impressive. I joined the community but haven't come up with a thing. I seem to be in visual mode these days.

But how well you are expressing yourself visually--or expressing others, I might should say, since I'm one of the beneficiaries. Still, waiting for words. Liese, you should know I reacted to the words only, since I didn't know you were you at the time. How's that for impartial?

I love Haiku. Can't write them for spit, but I love them.

Polter, that reminds me a little of 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. Very nice.

Thanks. I don't know that one. Who's it by?