Coming home after eight years away, I have rediscovered shoe boxes and shopping bags full of bad poetry and lame short stories and drafts of my first novel called Mine in which nothing really happens but the narrator can't sleep and likes to watch ants and hates happy people. \
Excerpt: "Mine" / Martha Tuff c2000 This is where the main character has a job interview and I try my hand at dialogue, oh dear.
“Does it really matter?”
“Do they all cost the same nowadays?”
“No, I guess not”
“Neutral, fairly agreeable”
“Sparky? Like a flame?”
“Like the fire dog?”
“No... funny. I like that. Why do you wanna work here?”
“I need to get out of the house”
“I want to learn more about this town.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it is my town. I grew up here and I know nothing of it.”
“Sure, why not?”
“And you think it is important to know about the town where you grew up?”
“Yeah, how else are you going to know who you are, if you don’t even know where you came from, what geography is in your blood?”
“Good a reason as any. I’ve heard better but I’ve also heard worse.”
“Yeah, can you type?”
“I guess so.”
“What do you mean you guess so?”
“Is 90 words per minute good?”
“Ummm yeah sure. With or without mistakes?”
Look of forced approval.
“Ok, yes I can type.”
“I’ll see you Monday morning. Nineish”
“Punctuality isn’t worth much anymore as long as you get your work done I don’t really care. And if you could do it from home, I’d say good for you. Monday morning.”
“What the hell are you thanking me for?”
How delightful. I have also rediscovered handmade button jewellery, my collection of rocks *not* found on a beach and rusted metal anything. I used to wear rusty metal on necklaces that would turn my skin green and I thought it awesome.
So zines. Yes. I will make again. And it will be special. And maybe I'll share them this time.
You should make one too:
Hug a stranger! Make a friend!