Hmmmm...

Sometimes you find yourself remembering these little stories that you rd at random in one of those small press lit. journal-- months, even yrs later-- and it triggs such a flood of wonder at how much it had impacted you w/out you really knowing it had packed the powerful punch it did.

It makes you then wonder...what the heck was the name of that writer?... thinking to look him/her up to find out what else they've been up to; if they've been busy racking up the awards & prizes. And that story-- now you come to think of it, was so stunning in it's attn to craft and insight into the infinite complexity of human nature-- did it win its author some of those awards and prizes? A Pushcart maybe? And even though i know you really shouldn't live your life by awards, they're somewhat of a barometer of how much time and effort you're actually putting into this thing you so optimistically call a career choice (something to remember when the malaise of existential despair makes an appearance at the door and settles in for a long visit).

I've noticed that stories about older women stay w/ me the longest-- maybe it's because in a short while i'll be an older woman too. Or maybe these stories that have so impressed me are written by older writers (typically women) who seem to have had quite a bit of time to perfect their art & know their way around a sentence or two. Then it's hard to remember which little journal i actually rd the thing in, since they're so many to wade thru (not to mention which particular issue of the journal it was in). I know i could try googling whatever details i can remember on the off-chance one of these details will snag on an online archive.

But time and, lets face it, motivation isn't big on a lot of people's agenda, so i let nature takes its course: Eventually i find myself rding over issues of journals i'm familiar w/ and Lo! Jackpot. Or rding a new issue of a journal i'll find a mention that a particular story or poem had gone on to some prize and Lo!(again) it was that little unforgettable darling that had so insidiously worked itself into the subconscious-- storing huge chunks of itself in one of those vast memory compartments that had then sprung open out of the blue one day in a quiet moment of completely unrelated reflection.