Those who have been paying attention will recall that I am a self-taught writer. I have no degrees in Creative Writing, nor English, Literature, or any of the rest. I learned, first, by reading; and I learned, later, by doing. This is not to say that one ever stops learning by reading, and most especially by doing, but there was, in my case, a certain progression. I read until my brain had absorbed. . .Enough, and then I moved on to Phase II.
Which is where I, and every other writer, if they’re honest, resides for the entirety of their professional lives.
So this morning I decided to revisit one of the stories that inspired me — a story that I still aspire to equal, some day.
I was a little afraid that it would not be as wonderful — as brightly perfect — as I recalled, as it’s been some years since my most recent re-read.
The story is still wonderful, and I am, as yet and still, only an egg.
Here’s a link: Srendi Vashtar, H.H. Munro