Later a man I believed to be her husband approached. I had never met him. He was at odds with the image I had in my mind from her letters. Something about him was absurd or aphetic, as if his hair, now mostly absent, had been his distinguishing feature.
So much unsaid in this quiet intrigue. It reflects the secret memories which lie hidden in our souls. I also like the detachment of the main character who owes nothing to the bereaved husband.
And on an unrelated subject, thanks, Bob, for following my nonexistent personal substack. Mulling over ideas for my first post. It's put up or shut up time. But no pressure, huh?
I would value your opinion on the name I have in mind for my stack/substack -- "MEANWHILE, ELSEWHERE..."
I expect it will be a potpourri of journalistic essays, poetry & creative writing.
No pressure allowed. I've got several stories incubating but life gets in the way. Writers are not supposed to let that happen, according to the pros on here.
I like your title, a quirky mix of uncertainty in time and space.
So much unsaid in this quiet intrigue. It reflects the secret memories which lie hidden in our souls. I also like the detachment of the main character who owes nothing to the bereaved husband.
🙏
And on an unrelated subject, thanks, Bob, for following my nonexistent personal substack. Mulling over ideas for my first post. It's put up or shut up time. But no pressure, huh?
I would value your opinion on the name I have in mind for my stack/substack -- "MEANWHILE, ELSEWHERE..."
I expect it will be a potpourri of journalistic essays, poetry & creative writing.
Any advice? Thanks, ~ Hammond
No pressure allowed. I've got several stories incubating but life gets in the way. Writers are not supposed to let that happen, according to the pros on here.
I like your title, a quirky mix of uncertainty in time and space.
It's always happening elsewhere, isn't it.
Thank you. Sage advice.