I write poems. That’s pretty well-established at this point. In fact, I agonize over poems. I’m one of the slowest poets I know, which can often be really demoralizing.

But a few weeks ago, a line of dialogue popped into my head — the opening of a short story. Now, I’ve had ideas for short stories, but they usually come and go. The fascination fades after I realize that I’m only vaguely masking some incidents out of my own life and that I can’t sustain a story (or my own interest) beyond a few paragraphs. So, with this history, I didn’t even bother to write down the line of dialogue that popped into my head. I figured if I didn’t bother it, it wouldn’t bother me and we’d both go peaceably in our separate directions.

Not so. The dialogue kept coming back… and with it came a few characters, and they brought along all their baggage and personality quirks. They begged for attention — I would find myself thinking about them in the shower, talking about them (to myself) while I drove. They live in the 90s, so they forced me to start listening grunge & garage rock, circa 95-97. (Hello again, Weezer.)

After two weeks of relentless dogging, a few days ago I gave in and started actually writing the story. All told, I spent about 7 hours on it, in that one day, writing into the wee hours. It kicked my ass. I was so exhausted yesterday that I didn’t even attempt to go back to it and finish. That’s for today.

Wish me luck. If I actually get it done, it will be the first story I’ve written and finished since grade school. Phew!