A stretch of fence

During my lunch break today I began perusing my completed short stories in search of the one to edit and post next month, hopefully on October 1. There isn’t a clear winner yet – I’m quite fond of Extinguishing Eternity and A Way Out but I may opt for something more polished. Both of those are in rough draft state.

All of these stories are from before I got swept away in the unexpected current of an unplanned novel, meaning they’re at least six years old. I, of course, have everything I’ve ever written (that wasn’t for school), so much of my writing is far older than that. It’s hard not to reflect on how much I’ve changed in that time.

Couples are far less likely to be a source of drama in my writing now. Characters may have boyfriends or girlfriends, husbands or wives, but they’re not part of the problem (the driving issue of the novel that needs to be resolved). You’re not going to find me writing about a failing marriage, infidelity, how to handle a long distance relationship, etc. Not because those things aren’t realistic, but because I’m no longer interested in exploring them.

As someone who doesn’t want children and doesn’t expect to get married, I find there’s very little out there that doesn’t focus on characters who are somehow interested in partnering up. I want to write about those people, about all the ways we can find and create meaning in our lives on our own, about all the important connections that aren’t romantic, about people who can be whole by themselves. I want kids to grow up with these examples around them, so that they know it’s okay – more than okay – to not want the traditional life.

Today’s First Sentence is from A Way Out, a fantasy short story that doesn’t feature any romantic relationships at all.  I wrote it in April and May of 2011.

At first I think it’s a group of boys playing. I ride closer and realize there are six young men clustered around a stretch of fence – the far border of a farm or large estate. Most likely students from the academy. They are wearing brown and it’s difficult to distinguish them from the surrounding hills of dirt and grass, especially against the orange and purple of the falling sunset.

The scene holds my attention. When I’m nearer still I see a seventh figure, also young. She is bound with her back against a wood post and they are beating her. Kicking. Punching. Again and again. She must be unconscious; she doesn’t fight back.