The Writing Life: June 2006 Archives
I frustrate easily. It's something I've been plagued with my entire life. I also second-guess myself to an often unhealthy degree. I rewrite my stories over and over and over and sometimes find that I've hacked the most interesting parts of the work out in the interest of brevity. I have the hardest time trying find the line between interesting, colorful language, and pompous, conceited "I want people to glorify my use of language" verbosity.
The story I’m thinking of (the one I’m trying to find a market for, thus the thing that prompted this particular rant) is one I wrote for one of those 24-hour short story competitions. It’s only 1,100 words and it really can’t be any longer.
But maybe it can. The schizophrenic inside me argues that I could rewrite it, make it about 3,000-4,000 words (a very salable length) and not lose anything in the translation, but that doing so would irreparably damage the heart of the story. I could maybe flesh a few things out a little more. Add more words to puff it up a little. Put some meat on the bones. But that would change it into something else.
I'm just frustrated with the story. I'm frustrated with giving birth to something that may have a hard time finding its place in the world. I want the poor story to go forth and multiply but no one will ask it out on a date.
That said, the fact that this particular story is a hard sell is natural motivation for me, rebel that I am. "Oh yeah, you say I can't do something? Well, I'll show you!" The assumption a writer has to make about their work to keep from throwing themselves under a tractor-trailer is that if they just put their work out in front of people, there will be someone, somewhere that appreciates it or likes it. That their work is not in vain and that the life they squeeze out of themselves to share with others is worth the sacrifice.
I'm not giving up on it. I'll take a gander through Writer's Market and maybe shoot it off to some literary rags. Throw it against the wall and see if it sticks. Maybe it will and maybe it won't. If nothing else, I'll have fodder for that inevitable short story collection that first-time authors get to release before their second novel comes out.
On Sunday, we made it back to Missouri after a week-long trip to Alliance, Nebraska and then to the Black Hills in South Dakota. We went as co-sponsors for a mission trip with our youth group. We put on a vacation bible school in Alliance for the Native American kids whose families work in Alliance, but have family or ties back to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota.
We went to Wounded Knee, South Dakota, which was interesting, but depressing. In the center of the cemetery is the mass grave in which 87 Sioux women, children, and men were buried on January 2, 1891, 3 days after the massacre.
The most beautiful part of the trip for me was the Black Hills of South Dakota. I think I could live there.
I think I'll write a story or three that involves the discovery (by whites) and settlement (illegally) of the Black Hills. They have such a unique history that I don't think has been fully explored.
