Fiction

The Guardian has rules for writing fiction. Which boils down to: just write. Without fear or favour.

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The Jan-Feb issue of the 2nd Rule that I guest-edited is out. It’s the memory issue: on how we are remembered, and on the trails we leave behind. And it has an updated version of this old short fiction piece:

After the fifth night in the fifth hotel in the fifth city, he decided to invest in some real toiletries. Only people who weren’t going anywhere got their soap from a big bottle. Or, at least, only people who didn’t want to be moving anywhere. It was about the only thing that smacked of permanence that would fit into his tiny carry-on. Portable furniture, of sorts.

Another fragment of writing, circa 2001: Let’s start at the end, shall we? Stops you from playing guessing games. The end is “Tracks of My Tears” playing on my stereo, me sitting on the floor of my living room because the couch feels too – comfortable, I think – and somehow I feel I have to feel something. Yes, it’s a cliche and if someone looked on me right now filming me it would be an ordinary scene in a B movie; camera starts up from high and goes in, then circles around my head.

I can see her sleeping in my bed now. She’s tugging at the front of her lavender nightgown because it feels too small for her. Twisting, turning about, she tries to settle herself but she can’t sleep. I’m not there, though I should be, and something is missing.

If he even saw them, these women, he usually only saw their heels, the ankle turned to leave the flat. So this much he knew of the women his son brought back: the court shoes, the pumps, the stilettos, with the occasional surprise of a pair of Birkenstocks.

First entry, since a random perusal of the Blogger homepage convinced to sign up for National Novel Writing Month. Official goal: 50,000 words from scratch, from 1-30 Nov. I just really want to build up my writing portfolio, so I don’t need to hit 50,000, but I thought this would be a fun spur.