Stein shook the structure with grammatical catastrophes. McCarthy tore it apart and left it desolate. Hemingway wrote emotion without words. Faulkner was complex without feeling, and Joyce – well Joyce was eloquent in all things he wrote – but I want to strip it down to its arid bones, rip away the rancid fat and throw away the rot. I want to blow the dust from the dried carcass and find that what is underneath is all that’s necessary. I want to discover as Kerouac did, of himself, that I am a writer, and this is writing. This is art. Call it flash fiction, micro fiction, whatever. I think I will call it, because it is unwasteful writing, frugal fiction.
I live in Winston-Salem North Carolina where I practice frugal and unwasteful writing, or flash fiction as it is otherwise known. I am 43 years old. I am vegetarian. I have an old dog and two grown children. My children are away becoming educated adults. Judging by the turnip-greens still in her food dish, my dog is probably not vegetarian.
root dot gilmore at gmail dot com