Much of my written work follows a lyrical pattern. Alliteration, assonance, and other fancy terms–magician’s tricks which often make listening to the words as pleasurable as reading. Sometimes even more so.
Reading takes time. It takes concentration and focus and the conscious decision to remove yourself from everything else. In that way I’ve envied visual artists their art forms. When you ask someone to view a painting or a photograph, it requires a few moments of their time. When you ask someone to read an essay, a short story, a novel, you are asking for something far more substantial, something more than a few moments. But to listen? Well, to listen you only need open your ears. You can listen while you plow through the ironing pile or while you drive from point A to point B.
If what you hear makes you put the iron down, nod along as you steer, then that only means I’ve done my job well.
Glutton is a short story. Or perhaps it’s a long prose poem. It’s a combination of words. Whatever it is, it is about the digestion of want. My mother would have called it when your eyes are bigger than your stomach. I’d call it when your desire is bigger than your heart.
Drunk on the Isle of Misfits. Probably one of my favorites, playing with structure and form, and lots of colons. From my Jeanette Winterson phase. Which I’ve never completely outgrown. The published version is here, at Typehouse Literary Magazine.
The Space Between our Names is a short story included in Precipice, The Literary Anthology of Write on Edge (available on Amazon.com). The story explores the intensity of friendship, particularly between adolescent girls. An excerpt follows.