I bought a new book, because apparently not one of the dozens of unread books in my home was quite perfect enough for my next read.
(I may have a problem. But I contend there are worse vices than the love of words around me at all times.)
I bought a collection of short stories.
I’m joining a writer’s workshop this summer for grad school, and the focus will be fictional short stories.
(So the purchase was really an educational decision, too.)
(I read somewhere that an addiction is only further merited when the addicted one is offering excuses. But I digress.)
My mind started to wander as I drove home, knowing this treasury sat in the passenger’s seat, neatly tucked in her brown bag. I nearly secured her with a seatbelt.
Isn’t everything really a short story?
The story of this day.
The story of this week.
A poem, a sentence,
the theory of the six-word memoir – all short stories.
Even a novel: isn’t it the weaving together of several short stories?
And if I can write one good short story,
then maybe I can write another,
until they become a beautiful collection,
the story of a woman, a family, a life.
What isn’t a short story?
And then I got all existential on myself.
I started wondering if I’m actually living a short story,
if you are too,
if all of life is actually the weaving together
of a million short stories
into one best-selling novel.