Last night, my friend Leah and I attended Creative Loafing's Fiction Contest Party at Eyedrum. The theme of this year's contest was "slip" which resulted in three finalists, with stories tackling cross-dressing, the disintegration of a relationship and the death of a parent. The cross-dressing story won the contest, and it was, definitely, the best of the three, but unfortunately, it also inspired a burlesque theme for the party, which resulted in four awkward performances, including at least one wardrobe malfunction leading to nipple exposure.
But one thing I did learn (I've seen nipples before) is that short fiction is where it's at. I've long since fancied myself a writer and after having moderate (okay, fine, semi-moderate) success with poetry, I moved on to novels and I am proud to have no less than four incomplete novels under my belt. But I just can't finish them. I don't have the patience and my desire to write poetry left with the angst of youth. But there's this whole intermediate genre out there that I've completely neglected. And I don't even know how this is possible since I love Flannery O'Connor so much.
Tonight, I'm off to my friend, artist Amanda Dumas-Hernandez's, closing reception of her "Blessings and Curses" exhibit at Studioplex on Auburn Ave.
Tomorrow, I'm taking my niece for a tour of Kennesaw State and then going out to dinner with my friend Wendy. Saturday and Sunday I'm working for the man.
It's a good life. Busy. But also lonely. This song seems to be stuck in my head a lot.
And speaking of Jill Andrews, I'll be seeing her February 4 at Eddie's Attic.
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