This week I learned that I can still write fiction.
I pulled out an old short story and have been working on it. I hope to debut it on my blog in the coming weeks.
I declared the story “finished” probably 18 years ago. But something kept nagging me about it–a scene here or there that I knew needed a rewrite, facts that were just a little bit off.
I thought this story just kept nagging me because I consider it the “best” story I have written (more for its length than anything else). But, in retyping and revising it, I realized that it speaks to a deeper part of me than I ever realized before. That this story was going to give me an opportunity that life will never give me.
Although I thought it was finished, it has a few more story lines that need to play out;)