fiction.

When I was younger - nine, ten, eleven, twelve - I'd sit down at the laptop on the dining room table on Saturday mornngs. I had no real interest in the Internet, found instant communication awkward, and instead did what came so naturally then.

I wrote.

I wrote epic tales of the Key West Suns. There must be over thirty stories. As Lena remembers, one was 200 pages. Size 14 font, single-spaced.

And then I started middle school and my writing began to turn to gymnastics tales that were essentially actual people with different names and semi-fictitious situations.

And then long fiction faded into bursts of poetry. And then I don't remember fiction at all. I began a few stories here and there, got to ten or forty pages, and stopped. I did not know how they should end. So I ended before they had the chance to.

At sixteen, everything became real. Friends, night skies, burning limbs, thoughts of love, tired mornings, and the tension already - here-or-elsewhere, this-or-more.

It's been that way for six years. I needed to live instead of spinning fiction from more fiction. What did I know, anyway?

I wanted to write in fiction so many times this year, hoping to maybe be slightly less vague through clear metaphors, but it happened again - that ending thing. I still don't know.

So I settle for flashes - urgent writings to be done in a few hours or a few days where something happens and ends. Like the writing I get paid for: start, story, done.

Because what do I know, anyway? I'd like to think a little bit more, at least.

I woke up this morning and realized I'd dreamt of love with someone who does not exist and unrealistic monologues and movie danger. Not grad school, not whatever-this-is, not strange-events-that-I-somewhat-dread-to-cover-but-know-will-be-fine.

What a relief it was: to dream in fiction.