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When you think your short story is the whole fish, but it soon becomes clear that it is not—so you slice it open & discover it’s just the glistening, delicate roe.
When you think your short story is a lazy summer afternoon, but it stretches into a week-long vacation, which means it& #39;s a novel.
When you think your novel is a bunch of beets, but it& #39;s actually just the tops--the leaves and stems, roughly chopped and sauteed in olive oil with garlic. And a little salt and red pepper flakes.
When you think your poem is a miniature, set in gold, brush stroke so fine you can& #39;t see them, but actually it& #39;s a cameo carved in agate.
When you think your story is a many-limbed imaginary monster, and it’s actually a ghostly deep sea creature that has yet to be discovered.
When you think your story is the tear-stained pages of a secret diary, and it& #39;s actually a telegram from your favorite aunt--the one who wears coral lipstick and chunky jewelry.
When you think your poem is a faded neon concert flier tacked to a telephone pole, and it& #39;s actually the welter of rusted staples on the other side of the pole.
