Short story? Hmmm...

I've been contemplating writing a short story... something along the lines of a lesbian romance, or mild erotica... I'm not sure yet.

I'm a dreadful budding writer. I tend to self-critique to the point where I become afraid to write anything because I worry so much over how it will come across, what I have left out, how stupid it sounds, how amateurish, how...

See what I mean?

Endless.

Anyway, I am going to support a dear friend at a poetry jam tonight. The brave soul is standing up in front of a crowd and speaking poetry from the heart. And I thought, I've been asked so often at these things, if I am a writer, a poet, or indeed a photographer, that I must obviously have this aura of 'hesitant artiste' of some type hanging around me (or maybe it's my scruffy cord trousers, battered velvet jacket, glasses and sensible shoes that give me away...). Just last Sunday, while we were bowling with a group of fellow lesbians, my friend said to me she was wondering why I didn't just get on with it - I talk like a book most of the time, and seem to have some interesting insights (shrugs shoulders).

So why not? Why not throw caution to the wind, and just write for the hell of it?

It's bloomin' scary, that's why - like baring one's arterial veins to a vampire and asking him *not* to rip you to shreds....

So.. here goes...the first part of some very dodgy prose...(this is, by the way, a slight variation on my real experiences of last Saturday - inspired by the 'almost true lesbian encounters' anthology I read the other month. Let's just say, my imagination/muse has been re-writing what would have been rather a nice way to spend a Saturday evening. Grin):

"I thought about going to the film night with my friend. It was a film I’d seen many times before, an old romantic lesbian favourite that never failed to turn my heart to mush, and put a wistful, indulgent smile on my face. If I was honest with myself, I was really going to see if I could find her.

Her, is the woman I haven't met yet, the as yet unknown other, of whom I have caught glimpses of out of the corner of my eye on the train, in the park, in the hallways, in the street. A shapely leg revealed by a flowing skirt as a lady steps out of a taxi, the scent of freshly washed long hair as I pass among the crowds of commuters in the morning, the warmth of female laughter floating by on the evening breeze as I stroll along the riverbank...

All these small moments that seem to encapsulate the beauty of a woman - her body, her scent, her wit, her laughter - the woman that is slowly drawn on the canvas of my mind as I go about my everyday things, like a sketch on soft paper, taking shape and form, line by line, as my heart yearns for a lover, mindful of the fragility of lofty ideals, but hopeful that one day, I will recognise her essence, know her for her being - that we may one day recognise each other and smile, slowly, as we acknowledge the end of a search, and the beginning of an interesting, scary, and wonderfully imperfect human adventure.

Such dreams... I was sure I was far too romantic for my own good.

'Heart for Sale, On Special Offer. Easily Broken, But Susceptible to Soppy Novels, Daydreams, Wispy Clouds and Chocolate'.

What was I like eh?

So, come Saturday afternoon, I hit the shower, put on my soft butch boyish-shorts under my navy blue cords, picked a cheeky lacy black bra, covered up by my dark button-down shirt, and set-off with a Tibetan pendant bought on the dusky streets of Seattle, and, my dreams in my heart, and my gloves in hand, set out for the evening."

---

Hmmm...

That *was* scary.

I don't know...
I may update this post from time to time, by adding more to the story (will put ‘---’ lines between each update…)

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Maybe.