The First Mornings of the World
Buried in my files are notes I made, decades ago, on a piece of fiction I was considering writing. They are, for want of a better description, written stream of consciousness sessions. There is no formal outline. I’d not decided what the story was to be about, into what genre it would fall. I just wrote. I had this idea, as I often have with my poetry, that the words would find their own form, sooner or later, maybe with the help of a good editor. Fortunately, or unfortunately as some might have it, I never got to the end of the story. Maybe I will. For the time being, I’m going to post the 25 writing sessions on this blog to save them; there are some interesting bits that, in my “endless pomposity” as a sibling recently phrased it, I think deserve to be saved.
I am going to present the original material spell-checked but otherwise, as is. There are twenty-five sessions. As the sessions unfold, there are some inconsistencies in the presentation that I imagined would be caught in the editing that the material still awaits.