It's been a week since Halloween, a week since the end of October, a week since the culmination of Short As Fictober, my self-imposed, month-long writing journey. I haven't written much of anything since then, but I have had a moment to reflect on the experience and make a plan of sorts.
Writing is a strange and giant beast, that I sometimes lose sight of the simple fact that it's supposed to be fun. I'm looking forward to what kinds of stories will happen over the next 31 days. Who's with me?
Currently the journal's taking submissions for its third issue (in fact, this weekend it'll be free to submit), and if you have a piece of fiction or nonfiction, a poem, or a hybrid text of some type, and a connection to Wisconsin's Chippewa Valley you should send it on in.
America, I think, is about poor people playing music and poor people sharing food and poor people dancing, even when everything else in their lives is so desperate, and so dismal that it doesn't seem that there should be any room for music, any extra food, or any extra energy for dancing. And people can … Continue reading “America is about […] Poor People”
They slept under a tree near the overpass, side by side on top of August's plastic sheet. Kirsten slept fitfully, aware each time she woke of the emptiness of the landscape, the lack of people and animals and caravans around her. Hell is the absence of the people you long for (144). --Emily St. John Mandel, Station … Continue reading “They Slept Under a Tree…”