Yes, they're gone.....those short stories I've labored so hard over. Gone off into the hands of friends to be read and critiqued. Some have already been through the scrutiny of my writing group, a couple have been previously published, but for most, it's these stories' first time out of the comfort and safety of the notebook I've coddled them in. I gathered them all together, dressed them up in their best fonts, and polished them with prettier words. After begging them to be on their best behavior, I then let friends I respect carry them off to their easy chairs. Now I hope these stories don't belch in anyone's face. I don't know which one will charm Kathy, which one will grate on Mark's nerves or make Lynn cry, which one Denise might think was a horrendous waste of her time to read.
A couple of these short stories are autobiographical: about telling my son he needs to use condoms when he has sex; about the time my ex-husband followed me into the library with a baseball bat; about an unexpected visit from my mother. My heart and soul have gone into many of them. It makes me nervous to have them out of my sight, as if they are toddlers who have gone to a play group and parents are not allowed to attend and watch over them.
I'd love nothing more than to bring them all back home, possibly where they belong. But they'll never grow up without an overnight or two away from home. I'd like them to follow a path to the big city some day, all the way into the hands of a publisher who might put them between a hard cover. They could eventually find themselves sitting on a shelf in a book store in the company of those I could only dream they might rub book covers with.
Isn't that every mother's dream?
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