Donis here, happy to announce that we just bought a new car. It's the first new car we've bought in 20 years. We decided we'd better do it now while the getting is good. It's a Subaru, which brand we've never before owned. I've always liked the look of Subarus, but never particularly noticed them on the road - until now, when it seems that Subarus are everywhere I look. Interesting how just paying attention changes one's reality.
Ever notice how ideas get into the ether and suddenly everyone has the same thought at once? Is it like a virus, spread by physical contact but no one knows where it first began? Or is there a more mystical source? I'm sure it's something infinitely more prosaic than Muses or an Oversoul, but what the heck, I like that idea better than just mental epidemiology.
A couple of weeks ago I decided that I could use a switch-up in my writing life and thought I'd try doing some short stories again. I say "again" because for many years, short stories and poems were all I wrote. Then when I began writing novels in the '90s, I quit writing shorter pieces altogether. When I sat down again to write my first short story in decades, I discovered that my short-form muscles need building up. If you practice the instrument for years, you're in danger of forgetting how to play. Fortunately, there seems to be some sort of muscle memory going on, and it is coming back to me.
Having tapped into that long-buried well after all this time seems to have dredged up the serendipity genie, too. Last week I dug into the chest at the end of my bed, looking for something unrelated to writing, and came across a box containing scores of sort stories I wrote over forty years ago. I had completely forgotten they existed. It took me several days to re-read them all. Many were unfinished. Most were pleasant diversions. Some were embarrassing. A few were surprisingly good. But what impressed me most about all these stories is that I never tried to get any of them published. I had written every one of them for the sheer joy of it, with no thought of monetary reward.
It's like Virginia Woolfe said: "Writing is like sex. First you do it for love; then you do it for your friends; finally you do it for money."
