Lately I’ve become intrigued with short stories and flash fiction, something I haven’t done much with since college. I find myself reaching back into the deep recesses of my life and pulling some dark memories then reshaping them into stories. I know our lives shape our writing, but it never occurred to me until I started looking at these stories that writing really is like slicing open a vein and allowing the blood (sometimes poison) to spill out. It can be unnerving at times, but also energizing. Maybe that’s why so many writers are alcoholic or otherwise troubled by demons? Just a thought.