Now that I've turned my full attention to blogging, concentrated the meat of my intellectual power directly at it's core, then turned that meat back inward upon itself, I've reached a startling conclusion.
I'm going backwards. I'll ellaborate.
I had an idea for a novel once, got the juices of the aforementioned brain-meat really flowing. Had it all stored up in my head, even wrote some of the important stuff down. It was going to be huge, had just read a bunch of Gabriel Garcia Marquez (LONG before Oprah!), it was gonna be massive. And it hasn't gone anywhere since. I had a tough time getting started, that was the problem. There was just too much to think about, I couldn't break it down.
So I backed off, decided to take it easy. I would start with short stories. And start I did, started roughly a dozen. Started some at the beginning, some at the end, some diabolically in the middle. I took those little morsels of story and incubated them until they were totally fleshed out--thickening them up without ever spreading them out to encompass a beginning middle and end. Vignettes are basically what I had, though even vignettes do something usually--the ones that are thought to have literary merit. So what I had were vignettes crystalized to the epitome of vignettehood and obviously, as stories they suck. I liked all the ideas well enough, I just couldn't finish. I'll let the Freudians pick me over for that overtly sexual symbolism, whatever. I guess that little vignette about vignettes had a beginning middle and end . . . and wasn't 12 pages long and dripping with angst.
Back on point I haven't written anything in a long ass time, probably because of this vignette thing.
Now I'm blogging, and that's that.
Oh and mountain-friend just reminded me that our high school English teacher told us there's no reason to use more than 3 periods in an ellipse.
