I’m starting to realise how small a number ‘fifty’ really is. No sooner have I got into my stride, than I have to pull to an abrupt end. Using flowery adjectives is difficult because they’re expendable. See I’ve already reached forty-one and we’re just getting acquainted. I’ll call you?
So I realise these are just like poems. Yes! I feel good about that. I’m writing a poetry book. What’s wrong with that? Except they don’t rhyme. That’s fine. Except they don’t really scan, like poems do. But who’s judging? Except me. And then I realise they’re nothing like poems.
Supposedly, all these micro-stories are the same. Short, word-bare and having a potentially predictable twist. So what if some stories had no twist? Yes! That could be the twist! No twist equals total surprise. Although that would mean there still was a twist.
Did I actually achieve anything just then?
So, I’m creating an alternative to the traditional cracker joke, am I? Is this what I was schooled for? Picking double-barreled words because they count as one. Well, I’m quitting.
Until a strange dream about a short story convention and autographing naked flesh gets me back in the saddle again.
Ok, so I’ve pulled myself together and decided it’s the biggest mistake of my life, a total waste of brain, an unironic parody of nothing at all. Who will read short snatches of fifty when the sun’s out or there’s reality TV to discuss?………………………Unless they’re used in Christmas crackers!!!!
So, I’m sitting at a smart desk with a giant monitor and a far more powerful computer in a room that one could now definitely describe as being furnished and I’m trying to fulfill the promise that my (slightly) more naïve self made. I have no idea what I’m doing.
I sat cross-legged on the filthy floor of a furniture-free office, head cocked upwards to view the computer monitor which rested on a box that once packaged a Betamax video and I decided to write a book containing short stories of exactly fifty words. Unfortunately this first one went slightly wrong.