I hate starting novels. Short stories, when they’re feeling generous and playful, can pop into being like you’re opening a bottle of champagne. Or, as is more my experience, they can budge into being like opening the stubborn lid of a fairly decent jar of coffee.
Maybe a better metaphor for this involves cars. Starting a short story can be like starting a car. The idea comes to you with some sense of theme and ending, if you’re lucky and you’re not trying to ignore the deadline breathing down your neck and asking why you’ve not got your shoes on yet.
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