So much for the short story. Modest in its pretensions, shyly proud of its petite virtues, a trifle anxious in relation to its brash rival, it contents itself with sitting back and letting the novel take on the big world. And yet, and yet. That modest pose — am I mistaken, or is it a little overdone? Those glancing-away looks — do they contain a touch of slyness? Can it be that the little short story dares to have ambitions of its own? If so, it will never admit them openly, because of a sharp instinct for self-protection, a long habit of secrecy bred by oppression. In a world ruled by swaggering novels, smallness has learned to make its way cautiously. We will have to intuit its secret.Read the whole thing (it won't take long).
"The Ambition of the Short Story"
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Meat-Ghost
Meat-Ghost by Christopher Walsh, 11/13/2023 Becoming a Meat-Ghost: unseen, untracked, You and UnYou, seemingly There and Not-There at once, a…
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Be a gentle giant
Pickups. Sprinter vans. Vans (not as big as sprinter vans). Diesels. I had had, I think, no experience driving any of these before December 2018,…
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I CAN WRUTE. WRITE, I MEAN. WRITE. (Damn you, misspelling.)
Random, huh? *grins* Saturday seemed like a good night to spend some time in a booth at the bar (Old Gilbert Road Tavern, a few blocks away), but…
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