I can feel the heat of a Botswana summer in the air and I am loving it. The pool is about to be filled and my lazy Sundays of reading, swimming, sun and that other s- word I should probably not mention here as it will embarrass my husband, are just around the corner. I love the scorchers. I know the whole cancer sun thing, but I just can't accept that sun is bad for me. It just seems against the natural order of things. How can manufactured vitamins be good for me and natural sun bad? Conspiracy theory? You be the judge.
I'm compiling a collection of short stories for a South African publisher and all of my work got wiped away in the recent computer disaster so I am frantically reading trying to get caught up. There are some stunning pieces of writing in the submissions, words that knock you flat. When I was out on my daily walk with the dogs this morning, I was thinking about these short stories, actually I was thinking about short stories in general, and why I find them so satisfying. They are not , as some think , practice for writing novels, or quick short books. They are a different type of writing altogether. They have a beautiful urgency within a confined space that makes them fire-hot sharp. They pierce you deep and leave a lingering wound days after; at least the good ones do. A well written short story is such a gem. It is sad they are not given the status they deserve.
So I have patched the pool, washed my walking shoes, washed two thoroughly reluctant dogs that promptly rolled in the dirt, did the dishes, changed the bed sheets, and written this. After two weeks of raging at computers and late payments for writing- I am feeling the itching of creativity coming back to me. A short story is scratching at my brain; it must be time to get to work.