You Are What You Write

I’m working on a collection of short stories set in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. By working, I mean I have a list of seven stories I’ve written that leans up against the chair in my office. The point was to have a working list of stories, but it’s become more of a resting list lately. It just sits there, leaning, taunting.

Yesterday, I researched how many stories I need to make a collection, thinking that probably seven isn’t enough. A minimum of 40,000 words, one source said. Another suggested twice as long would be good. Either way, I’m a long way from having much of a collection. So far, I could print what I have on my office printer, staple it in the upper lefthand corner and call it a day.

Why am I writing these stories? I don’t know. I haven’t studied story writing or writing at all. I wrote my first story, The Twelfth Street Bridge, as part of an online class I took through our public library a few years ago. The class was a series of taped lectures and, at the time, seemed like the sweetest thing ever. And I did, amazingly, end up writing another short story that won a pretty coveted prize in Wisconsin, albeit third place. Everyone was surprised by that, not the least of whom was the editor of the publication sponsoring the contest.

Oh well.

I’m happiest writing my blog. But writing my blog is also the easiest. Writing a long essay or a story is hard, especially the part about reading and revising which, you might have noticed, I don’t do with my blog. Unless there’s some grievous error, like a typo, I never change what I write on my blog. It’s like cooking dinner for kids. You cook whatever you got, serve it hot, eat or don’t eat, clear the table, and move on to the next day’s frying pan.

Somewhere between the next day’s frying pan and a collection of decent stories is Story #8. I need to write it by next Tuesday.