This story took twenty years to write. At the end a diver goes missing. If you want to stop now, that’s about it.
I’m finally coming around to pay attention to the shapes of stories and why that matters.
“Let’s go smoke up,” Tripp told me, but I knew what he wanted.
I didn’t conjure up how this would end before I allowed it to begin.
My brother is incredulous. “Did you know he wrote poetry?”
Everything is easy for a man who spent his boyhood separating hides from rabbits like pulling off a tube sock.
We got the call about Shimon on a Friday night. No one answered the phone, of course. Not on Shabbos.
My writing isn’t governed by many rules, but I have a policy holds that when something falls easily out of the sky onto the page, I keep it, dressing up its impact from the landing, if needed.
Side effects may include: Weariness. Apathy. Headaches that worsen with light and sound. Anxiety on Sunday mornings.
The unraveling of Pa’s certainty, the wobble in his hands, the quaver in his voice, speak of things I cannot acknowledge.