I’ve been avoiding work on the Nashville book by writing short stories. I’ve got one about a woman who discovers she’s got a small-scale replica of Memphis in her belly, and one about the only girl in a family of seventh sons and her memories of her grandfather, and one about fortune telling and kidnapping and a failed studfarm. I’m working on one now about a woman who challenges a beaver to a dam building contest.
I keep writing about families, even when I don’t think that’s what I’m writing about. I’m just obsessed with how much of our current lives are the way they are because of choices and patterns set by our dead relatives long before we came along.
But I’m also kind of fascinated by just how little strangeness has to happen in a story for me to feel like it counts as fantasy.
I’m also kind of obsessed with writing stories about being working poor or maybe just recently out of that. A lot of these stories are, in part, about how a lack of money constrains you in ways that even having super awesome powers–psychic abilities or magic or whatever–doesn’t really help.
I don’t know if they’re any good, but they’re coming and, sometimes when you’re writing, that’s all you can ask.