Context

Brevity

I tend to be fairly efficient with my words. I'm not the kind of writer who will spend hours describing a tree, because chances are, you have in mind what an oak tree looks like. Your memory gives you a certain prejudice--meaning, I can describe the details of a leaf, and you will still see a leaf from your memory. The only reason I have ever found to describe a leaf is if it stands out in some way because of some magical powers or rot. Same thing goes for a kitchen. Or a bathroom. See? You already have them in your head, some of you even have the color down. That's one of my favorite parts about writing. Your imagination. Your perception. My art is simply guiding that through a story, and trusting you enough to know what a toilet looks like.

Brevity can also bite me in the ass. Like on Facebook, brevity is an invitation for, "Well, actually" which is one of my least favorite phrases. I just don't feel the need to turn everything into an essay, that will get dissected, actually'ed, and driven to nonexistence anyway.

Context

Sometimes I forget to add context to help place my brevity. Yesterday I shared a piece about a young woman sitting on the stairs of a bordello. The funny part is, in my mind, she was a modern girl in jeans and the house was no longer a functioning bordello. It was just a house. And she was just an average girl who had just rented a room in the bad section of a new town, and one of her new housemates was chatting with her.

It was later that I noticed the ambiguity, but I rather liked the flow and brevity of it so I left it alone...to let your imagination run with it.

And Then The Baby Walked In