I Write, Hesitate, Ramble
"I Breathe" continues to grow in pieces. It has now lingering just under 3200 words. It's hovering somewhere in the back of my mind, pestering me, haunting me, and I keep getting up from my current reading (Madame Bovary
, for those of you who are interested) or stop in the middle of doing the dishes or watching a repeat of Trading Spaces
to go type a few words, or delete a few, add a sentence here, a scene there. I actually added two more scenes onto the end of the story, after realizing that I was striking the wrong note. The echo was wrong. I think. Everything about this story is hesitation and fear and tiptoeing--and maybe, if I believe Jim Kelly, that means it could be something good. Who knows? All I know at this point is that this story contains some of my very favourite exchanges, some of the coolest lines that I've ever written, and yet I can no longer read it without wanting to turn away. I hope that's just 16 or so months of familiarity with the whole thing, not a gut reaction to some inherent flaw that I've thus far failed to notice.
Ah, sigh. I'm alone right now, my hands still wrinkled from doing the dishes, and my old Counting Crows CD is playing in the next room. "... and I wish it was a small world, because I'm lonely for the big town ..." It's a quiet sort of happiness. (Though maybe I do need a phone call.)