But I do love stories. I've written about that before, right?
Stories have life which stretches beyond the now. Stories can have life which stretches far beyond an author's. Stories are often the casualties of money grabs, even though words don't really belong to anyone or any business entity. Go ahead and fleece writers and readers. I have to believe they will find a way without you.
Okay, enough of that esoteric BS for now. I'm still stuck in short story mode despite the YA novel idea that has been knocking around in my skull like a marble in a metal can for the past few months. I hope to use short story mode to my advantage, buidling background for the novel by writing a flash story for each of the first tier characters. We shall see how that works. Maybe I can shift in March and make this novel happen.
For now, I give you a moment from "The Ghosts of Old Milford":
The others backed away—McHenry back to his loader to carry away the debris, but Nathan moved closer to the hole, remembering. His boots cracked fragments of glass and shards of wood as he stepped on the old floorboards. He counted back in his memory. Thirteen years. He was seven then, when they found the hole for the first time. Seven. He was seven when the men came back, looking for the opening under the floor, and they couldn’t find it. He wanted to look away, but the memory held him: the last time he saw Bobby Talbot’s face, white like a plastic mask at the craft shop, slipping into the black square as his fingers burned and ached and dropped the rope.
I also have a post up at Flash Fiction Chronicles today, more of me rambling about publishing ideas: Self-Publishing in the Era of Self-Publishing.