Yesterday I had a reason to go sorting through my files and re-read several of my short stories. It was nice to revisit the ideas in those stories and the feelings I wove into them. It reminded me of the beauty and power of short form writing. Right now I’m in a drafting and editing push on a non-fiction book. Once that is complete, I’d like to play with poetry and short stories for awhile. They’re so lovely and full of potential.
I’d hoped that February would be the month for playing with poetry, but I am still drafting. And preparing for a convention. And running crowdfunding. And helping a couple of young adults through some life transitions. February is too full of lists to unfold my brain into word play. Instead of trying to shoehorn this into the spaces between, I will let the plan drift forward in the calendar like a mirage on the horizon. A reward after the busy month is done. Yes, I know that “mirage” implies unreachable, it suggests that my month of playing with words will never arrive. That may be true, but hope on the horizon has value in itself. A value that is separate from the joy of arriving at an oasis.
Right now I feel joy in looking ahead toward a (possibly imaginary) month when I get to play with words in short formats.