Today I finished a short story I had been working on, I guess you could say, a long time. I had written it, let it sit, revised it thinking it was done and good, until I let a fellow writer as young as myself workshop it. That friend tore it to shreds, figuratively, of course. I needed it thought and I thanked my friend for the brutal honesty. I enjoy the constructive criticism and it takes a lot to kill some of those ideas I thought were so good, and those expressions that sounded so good in my head before my fingers put them down. But, I did it. I hope that the piece hits one reader dead in the heart with familiarity. That’s what I hope for as a writer, that it can hit people in the chest with a sudden and deep familiarity. There is an extremely powerful thing in being able to tell a story that people can relate to. It doesn’t have to be a lot of people, but just a few, or even one. We must feel. We’re human.
I took my time in editing that story. I let my friend workshop it weeks ago, maybe even months. I don’t know. I let it sit, with another copy with track changes ready to compare. I added some and took away some, but I took my time analyzing the syntax and sentences. It took a lot of thought, just as I’m taking thought in writing this right now, over a bowl of cold oatmeal while my clothes dry and I plan what I’ll write later this evening. Happy Sunday. It’s rainy in Queens, New York City.