The Footnote as a Form of Apology
A footnote reading only translated loosely sat in my own anthology for years before I noticed it apologized for nothing in particular. An apology needs to say what it is sorry for.
What the room is reading this week. Long-form work by people who write for a living and people who write to stay sane.
A footnote reading only translated loosely sat in my own anthology for years before I noticed it apologized for nothing in particular. An apology needs to say what it is sorry for.
A reader circled the scene where a grandmother closes a child's fingers over a coin and asked for a footnote. I did not add one, because the plot proves what the gesture means three scenes later, faster than a definition could.
I have argued for years that a world needs a maintenance schedule. I did not say the plan should survive a draft unchanged, because I did not yet believe an outline is allowed to be wrong.
My translator asked why a correctly translated line sounded wrong to her. It took an hour to find the extra stress my Persian ear had smuggled into an English sentence.
One sentence in the current manuscript has stood unfinished for eleven months, bracketed rather than guessed, because the fact it needs will not exist until an osprey pair either returns or does not.
My father could name a failing generator's exact fault from two streets away by its stutter, and never had one distinguishing thing to say about a generator that was simply working.
Nine year olds who could not describe a rhymed poem as pleasing could still produce its missing words on cue. Rhyme was never mainly about sound, it was a search filter.
My first published essay ends on a sunset over a fjord. I would delete that paragraph today, because the sentence was never actually about that fjord.
A woman signed a form about a project and later found the exact sum she borrowed from a cousin printed in a draft. The detail that made the sentence good was the detail that exposed her.