It’s a dank, gray day in later April. I’m not sure if it’s raining now, but the streets are wet. The trees are leafing out. I realized this year (for the first time) that a lot of that pale green is flowers. My friends with allergies know. This is the time of year they cough and sneeze. Still and all, I think there are leaves — or the hope of leaves — among all the flowers.
I have finished the first draft of a story: 53 pages and 14,700 words. The problem is, the story is a blob. There not enough plot, and I have not a clue what the story means. Also, I suspect the story leads toward another story. Maybe a group of stories. Maybe a novel. I am too old to begin a novel. I will focus on the story. I need to do a second draft, inserting plot and meaning. It might turn out to be entertaining.