Every day I come across hundreds of posts on the Web that speak to the necessity of establishing a platform and not deviating from it. Mine is relationships, and I address them via non-fiction, fiction, and poetry. There’s a school of thought regarding genre singularity, though there does seem to be wiggle room in genre delivery. Thankfully.
As I approach my next piece of work, I can say that there is an attractive array of possibilities. Should I continue the novel I started last year, Auntie Clyde’s Home for Elves, or go forward with The Liars’ Club-like memoir that began five years ago in my writing group, tentatively titled Insaneasylum. Auntie Clyde is about all sorts of relationships that are nested primarily in a renovated Victorian house in the lower-Hudson Valley. Insaneasylum is about growing up with a Christian-Scientist mother and a Jewish father and all the dichotomies that were created out of their coupling. Oh, and then there is my outline for a play, Der Dunkler, which was inspired by a former boyfriend’s definition of his life: work, sex, and take-out.
It occurs to me that a central feature of my childhood summers were the inordinate amount of splinters that would end-up in my little feet. I grew up on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, and despite my mother’s stern warnings, I insisted on going barefoot, exposing myself to endless episodes of sterilizing needles to remove the sharp fragments. The pain eventually evaporated and the risk of another sliver was soon forgotten.
Clearly, this is still a preference.