But I see in these little vignettes a possibility to do more with them. Right now they are kind of a quick-shot, write as I go record of little memories. There's not enough action--it's all so internalized--and not enough contemplation to give them much weight. Not enough connective tissue to things that truly matter. But, perhaps someday, I could go over them, rewrite and re-connect to give them some oomph. Will see. For now, I'll throw them out when I can, see what sticks. I'm trying to be honest, not over-dramatizing, not making myself into a hero or a bum, not over sentimentalizing or being full of self-pity. Yet, that's all in there just the same. The narrative is hopelessly affected, is all squeezed through the prism of my own memory and sense of self, that it can't help but to be an altered truth.
Yet, when it comes down to it, who the hell cares but me?