Birthday Cake
Oh my, this is the exit. Only twenty minutes away. I’m excited. My nose drizzled as I saw black-eyed Susans sprouting along the side of the highway.
We’re now here. What? There? Where? My car careened into a ditch. My wife called it their driveway, but I saw no house. They didn’t actually live right off the road. I crane my neck. We had to hike up to that ledge, where I saw no house. I was assured it was there above the shelf, across a stream, and over the ridge yonder.
Creating the Story: A 2nd Pass of ‘A Cut in Line Never Saves Time’
I don’t know what most writers think about. When I write, I imagine an audience has paid good money to hear my prose spoken. They don’t want to listen to my voice because I’m a mumbly bastard, but more preferably one of the Obamas, Patrick Stewart, or Helen Mirren. I imagine they’ve paid to witness a sublime concert, and just not some piece of social criticism. Okay, maybe a Rage Against the Machine—maybe that’s a bit too strong. More like an “Annoyed by the Bullshit.”