by Tsipi Keller


So, you write short shorts. You blog. You used to write novels, not for a living, but for a writing. You gather the reserves of enthusiasm still allowed you, and you tell yourself and others: You'd be surprised how much you can say in 300 words, even 200 words, maybe 50 words. I'm sure you can recall instances when one word was enough, when one word was too much!

Your friends look at you and nod, a nod you've come to suspect and resent, but a nod you yourself are capable of when they talk. You're not exactly on the fast lane, nor on the jet set, and people, even friends, can afford to ignore you. You glimpse the lane and the set on television, and your heart contracts with bitter envy, the same heart that knows you are exactly where you belong.



Copyright 2007 by Tsipi Keller



rous people walking the streets. But she knew she had to get out. Her apartment felt like the wrong place to be. It wasn't that the two women she lived with were being difficult. In fact they were pleasant people, and the place was large and well-designed, so they didn't get in each other's way. And it wasn't that Honey Stone was in a tough situation. She had good friends, a steady job, andds, a steady job, and no boyfriend problems.

But she knew she was in the wrong place. She knew she had to be somewhere else. She walked down Broadway watching herself appear and disappear and reappear in the darkened shop fronts. The street