SHORT Stories

I am writing a long-ish short story this month for Camp NaNoWriMo and I've decided to write MANY other shorter short stories...even one about Short People (Thanks, Nikki!). I'm working on short stories because I find the available scale of possible writing quite difficult. Small ideas requiring a whole novel to work out; huge ideas completely encapsulated in as few words as possible. 

Yesterday, I wrote a story on-demand, based on a visual, postcard prompt. I finished an entire, coherent, dramatic, action packed, rich story...in maybe 100 words? 

WHAT. A. BLAST. I WANNA SHARE IT!
But I hand-wrote it...in someone else's notebook. 

I was asked to participate in this exercise by a friend.  She wanted some interactive materials for an upcoming festival 'seeded' with examples of writings based on images, with or without prompts. I was happy to help with such 'kleenex' writing...just blow it out there, never expecting to need it again.

But today I am haunted by it. 
I want to read it again. 
I want to read it out loud to my husband. 
I want to text it to friends. 
I want to share it on my blog and be like, "Holy Shit! Look at THIS! I did THIS! I'm a fucking writer!" I would go so far as to say I think Neil Gaiman might like my miniscule story. Uh Huh. BOO-YAH!

And I'm also terrified.
What if it is only good in my mind?
What if I only THINK it is good because of the drug like adrenaline rush of fun ideas penned to the page.
What if the only reason I think it is so awesome is because I can't SEE it. I don't HAVE it. I GAVE IT AWAY TO SOMEONE ELSE. Now it is more precious than anything else I might write today...My Precious....

So in an effort to purge the residual story from my brain, here is the experiment: 

I am going to re-write it from memory.
The Writing Coach I work with said that opening a fresh page and starting over from memory is actually a specific technique for editing. (Albeit one that sounds like a nightmare to me, but then, I get a little attached to my THINGS, as you can see).

I will have, and post the ORIGINAL next week.
We can see how it differs!

For The Book Of Possibilities:

 He knew nothing was impossible when he saw the four-leaf clover in front of the gypsy fortune teller’s caravan. His jaw hurt where the left-hook had landed. Despite the grass crushed by his fall, the little plant stood tall and unscathed.

Her brother stood above, taunting and cursing him furiously. The ground he lay on pounded with the footsteps of every gypsy in the camp running toward the shouting. Silence fell when he plucked the clover, stood up in the circle of violence, brandished the small green talisman and cried, “May I marry her now!?”

The image I wrote from looked like this:

Courtesy of Google Images