New York, Workshop Short Story

What the hell was I thinking? The Author, deciphered & look–a movie!

Happy Tuesday. Let’s talk suicide.

Black humor. Too soon? Sorry. It’s only my second week, I’m still learning.

I assume if you’re reading this you’ve read The Author so there’s no need to say SPOILERS, right? Just in case, let me say, skip the first sentence: Here There Be Spoilers.

I’m nervous. I don’t think I’ve ever discussed a “process” before. I’ve never written prolifically so I’m not sure I have one. I wrote this story for my workshop, but the story came from a few ideas blossoming in my head at once. (This does not happen to me often.)

1) I was broke. I’d been laid off for months. If I remember correctly, I was newly temping. I was living with my aunt long before it became cool (you know, when enough important people started doing it).  I was existing off the goodwill of my friends and family…. Holy sh*t, that’s what I’m doing now!

2) I was obsessed with Craigslist. This was pre-prostitution and serial-murder implosion, and a friend introduced me me to it; I was constantly reading the Personals, specifically Missed Connections, Casual Encounters, and Rants & Raves. I was squeal-level happy and alternately shocked into silence by people’s public recounting of “romantic” flings, requests, and other things I’m pretty sure their parents had taught them not to share publicly. I enjoyed it, but things seemed to turn dark on that site fairly quickly. It wasn’t the sort of thing I should’ve been reading at 3 in the morning, but if I was battling insomnia, there I’d be, in the dark and squinting at my aunt’s crazy-old PC screen as people bared their souls to anyone who happened by.

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