Hey there. It’s the first Wednesday of the month and you know what that means. Insecure Writers Support Group, the day for insecure writers of all genres to get out there and talk about, well, their insecurities. Or not. You could also talk about your securities, offer encouragement, connect with your writing kin and comment on like-minded other’s blogs. It’s all about community and thank God for that, too, because lately it feels like the good ole’ US of A is sorely lacking in community. In fact, to quote Jack Nicholson who played The Joker in the 1989 Tim Burton version of Batman, it feels like “this town needs an enema.”
The IWSG just happens to be a cure for that feeling.
Every month the cohosts announce a question that participants may or may not answer depending on whether they have something better to chew on. Cohosts for the March 1 posting of the IWSG are Tamara Narayan, Patsy Collins, M.J. Fifield, and Nicohle Christopherson. Thanks, guys. You rock!
Want to join the #IWSG? Check out the page. Twitter handle is @TheIWSG. So get on it and hope to see you at the virtual water cooler. We can talk about our insecurities.
And now, on to The Question:
Have you ever pulled out a really old story and reworked it? Did it work out?
I did rework a short story I wrote about ten years ago called Stalker. I entered it into a contest or two, but nothing every happened so I stashed it. I pulled it out lately and cleaned up the language a bit. I like this creepy little story about a stalker told from the stalkers POV. It’s based on my real life experience of a creeper guy who rode my train for several months and did everything he could to get next to me short of sitting on my lap. I hated riding the train those months because I felt really violated even though the guy never touched me. After he left and the imminent fear was gone, I started thinking about the story from the creeper’s POV.
Here it is. Let me know if it captures the creepiness.
It is not as you believe, my Angel. I am not a bad man. You may think it odd that we have never spoken. I stand within ten feet of you, my Love, and the words falter, trapped in my throat. I wait for you on the platform this morning and when I don’t see you I begin my search. I spy you in the last car, walking to your seat. You prefer the solitude of the quiet car. I get that.
I juggle my briefcase and my coffee, taking up more than my allotted half of the aisle, but I see that you are nimble, my Love Light. I stop, and wait, and hope, but you have contorted yourself into a time-space continuum where anything is possible. You glide past me without so much as our arm hairs touching.
Read more of the short story here.