It seems I want what I have sadly little talent for. And while I press on to learn the new, the varied forms of narrative to find something I can settle into, I’m only shoveling out more paths that lead to nowhere. The shoveling is hard work, the learning of new means and methods to tell story. The program tools that are beyond my level of sophistication in my writing make it a trying of my talents, skills and limits. Maybe it’s all just window dressing and a sham; maybe you just can’t make, they say, a silk purse from a sow’s ear.
Flash Fiction Fridays
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- A Death in The Family
- At Swim Two Birds
- Barthes
- BASS
- Black Swan Green
- Blindness
- BLOGGING
- Borges
- Calvino
- Clockwork Orange
- Confrontation
- Consolation of Philosophy
- Cormac McCarthy
- DeLillo
- EDUCATION
- Faulkner
- Flatland
- Geronimo Sandoval
- Glimmer Train
- Henderson The Rain King
- if on a winter's night a traveler
- Ishiguro
- Jamestown
- Kundera
- Life of Pi
- LITERATURE
- Margaret Atwood
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- Master and Margarita
- Munro
- Murakami
- Peter Taylor
- Plato
- Ploughshares
- POETRY
- provinces of night
- REALITY
- St. Augustine
- Steinbeck
- Suttree
- The Unbearable Lightness of Being
- Tropic of Cancer
- Updike
- William Gay
- WRITING
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"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
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"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."
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