I feel like words are spilling out of me, even when I’m not actually writing. Ideas for stories ~ for their beginnings, their middles, and other one-liners. Anne Carmack wrote a bit about this yesterday, this experience of finding what we need as artists as we go about our day ~ quotes and details and the perfect string of words hidden in piles of laundry, the cereal aisle, and a teetering stack of packages awaiting pick up at the post office.

I’ve already submitted the piece I wrote about here, but only after trying to squeeze and bend and squash it into an essay less than half its original length, the attempt made to explore the possibility of submitting it for a column in the New York Times. I managed to pull a solid, 1600-word story out of the original 4800-word version, but it wasn’t the same, so I decided to let go of the big bold dream of the New York Times (for now) and instead send it to a literary journal. If published, it won’t get the same volume of readership, but it will be read and experienced and felt in its entirety. I am glad I gave it a go, but even more satisfied with the decision to keep it whole. The New York Times isn’t going anywhere, and, as I say, there are plenty of other stories to be told. And the literary journal will feel no less significant, no less worthwhile, that I know with absolute certainty. It’s about getting the work out there, in a way that best serves the work itself, and not my silly little ego.