I have always contended, Cherished Reader, that the act of writing -- at least the way I try to do it -- is like building a bridge: I know where I'm starting, I know where I want to get to, it's the bit in the middle that's tricky. Like building a bridge, every strut and cable is carefully engineered and deliberately placed in order to construct the narrative. There is no part that exists that is not placed purposely and with conscious forethought.
Or so I thought. One of my newly-completed stories is "Pale Pink Walls and White Furniture" -- an experimental piece of weird horror fiction in which I play around with the layout of the text to add to the narrative. I'll tell you up front that it took me three days to write the story, and nearly a month to select a title. I cycled through about four different titles until I came up with the phrase "Pale Pink Walls and White Furniture" -- and somehow, I knew that title was exactly right, it fit perfectly, but I had absolutely no idea why. Until about fifteen minutes ago.
Sadly, I cannot explain any details about the story, I don't want to give it away. As of this writing, only two living persons have read this story apart from myself. I do hope a magazine picks it up, I do like the story a lot and would love for you to read it someday.
Until then, I fear I must leave you with only this blog, the random spewings of my rather ordinary brain, which sits in my skull, a small but comfortable room of pale pink walls (flesh) and white furniture (bone).