There is a story still sitting in the bowels of my computer. It is a series of starts and stops. I think it just needs some space to spread out.
A lot of it is just scenes: A man looks at a glowing field and smiles, not really sure why, other than because he feels he should. A woman leads me down a sterile hallway and into a room filled with rows of white file cabinets. She slides open a drawer. This is the room where everything dead comes back to life. In another, I am standing in a parking lot in Utah. The mountains to my back are turning to gold. I am waiting for the gloaming and a stranger. I consider whether or not the temperature will hold before getting into a car and then wonder, briefly, if perhaps I just didn’t get out.
I have dozens of pages of notes. Historical research. Links to websites. Conversations transcribed. The meat is still a draft too big to swallow. I look at the leftovers and copy and paste them to a blank page. Hello again I say. I scroll and am transported to Japan and standing on the banks of a river I will likely never see. I wait until it is just dark enough for the lights to come out. I remember why I wanted to write this story I still want to write. And then I begin again.