As I often do after writing a longer piece (this time, Borrowed Saints), I've attacked short story mode with a kind of rabid fervor. I now have five (well, almost five) competed first (or second) drafts in need of revisions...some major, some minor. I also need to put the finishing polish on that 15K novella.
I usually like revising, but the ideas just keep coming of late, and I don't want to slow down. I'm also trying to let my stories sit longer. I want them to be masterpieces. I want their wings to be firm and sure when I push them out of the nest.
I promise I'll revise once I finish my current story. Promise.*
From "The First Girl I Ever Loved":
The town is dying, but I’m compelled to drive every street, revisit every corner on which I shared history with Megan. Share history with Megan. The same old men sit in overstuffed chairs in the first floor reading room of the local library. The building is the same, I’m sure, but smaller. Perhaps, like the old men, the building has withered with age. They turn their bulbous, shiny eyes toward me, and their mouths open, stretching the slick, rubbery skin of their lips. Each holds up a braid of Megan’s hair as I pass through. They all have one, and use the strands as placeholders in their books. She kissed me for the first time—the only time—while we studied for a physics exam on the second floor, and I can still smell her under the spoil of old skin and moldy books. I enter through the back of the library and leave through the front, hesitating only to raise a hand in greeting to the old men.
Notice the odd tense shift in the passage? I'm playing with reality here, and this is only a tiny taste. I hope it works because I have big dreams for this one. Honesty is coming easier these days...just not revising.
*note the author crosses his fingers as he types this, which makes it damn hard to type