I don’t believe in short stories. Short stories are long stories without the details; appetizers that don’t lead to entrees. I have many long stories. If I have told you a short story, likely, I have lied to you. If I have been brief or abrupt in my narrative, I have mislead you but I am not likely to apologize.
Likely, I did not think you would commit to my story, so I gave you a bite-sized version and I was sad, but not surprised to find that you were satisfied. You didn’t ask for more. Or, I did not trust you to be a custodian of the fine details that collide to create me, so I gave you a summary. I gave you just enough to avoid feeling like I was burdening you.
But all my stories are long. I have only a few branches but the depths of my roots-oh, they are marvelous.
I protect my long stories. And too many short stories will expose me and the lighting will be poor. With too few pixels, I will be at the mercy of your interpretation but I am not likely to be found in your rendition.
So when you tell me that I don’t talk about myself enough, or if you feel like you don’t know me, if you have inclination that you only have the parts, likely, I have offered you the little that exists before &.