Random; as usual
So I found a two pager one-shot Sunday.
A one-shot is one of two things; a story that is a complete stand alone, that needs no background or understanding from another source. Or, it’s a single scene, or snippet of dialogue, or passage that desperately needs the rest of its story written. It’s a starter, a beginning; it’s the result of a lightening strike of creativity… brief, but blinding.
So, I found a two pager one-shot. It’s a scene. It was in the back of my poetry binder (that place where I keep all of the poetry I have every written… even the bad stuff.
I was so startled to see it there that I had to sit and read it. And, damn, it was good. I mean, really good. I had a vague sense of familiarity while reading it, but otherwise it was like reading someone with a style similar to mine… but so much better. I was thrilled; truly excited about the prospect of finding the snippet again and continuing. There was such depth and possibility in that one scene; I was amazed that I didn’t remember a thing about it.
Last night, I began searching my hard drive for the little blip of writing. I’ve had this drive for years, transplanting it from computer to computer, saving everything for posterity.
And, horror or horrors, I couldn’t find it. There was a paralyzing flash of panic at the thought that, if I hadn’t, for some odd reason, printed out that moment of lightening, it would have faded and never existed again.
And, in reality, it might be no where near as awesome as I seem to think it is. And that would be fine. But I am so very happy that I found it.
A one-shot is one of two things; a story that is a complete stand alone, that needs no background or understanding from another source. Or, it’s a single scene, or snippet of dialogue, or passage that desperately needs the rest of its story written. It’s a starter, a beginning; it’s the result of a lightening strike of creativity… brief, but blinding.
So, I found a two pager one-shot. It’s a scene. It was in the back of my poetry binder (that place where I keep all of the poetry I have every written… even the bad stuff.
I was so startled to see it there that I had to sit and read it. And, damn, it was good. I mean, really good. I had a vague sense of familiarity while reading it, but otherwise it was like reading someone with a style similar to mine… but so much better. I was thrilled; truly excited about the prospect of finding the snippet again and continuing. There was such depth and possibility in that one scene; I was amazed that I didn’t remember a thing about it.
Last night, I began searching my hard drive for the little blip of writing. I’ve had this drive for years, transplanting it from computer to computer, saving everything for posterity.
And, horror or horrors, I couldn’t find it. There was a paralyzing flash of panic at the thought that, if I hadn’t, for some odd reason, printed out that moment of lightening, it would have faded and never existed again.
And, in reality, it might be no where near as awesome as I seem to think it is. And that would be fine. But I am so very happy that I found it.