Yeah, Crows is done and it’s techically well-written and even has a good story (which is not my strong point) and a series of actions and conflicts that build to a nice arc and resolution of story.  But it sucks.

It has no meaning, no relevance to a reader’s life–it doesn’t even have any real meaning for me.

I realize that while nice little stories are, well, nice, and that voice and style and language add up to fine writing, for the short story market these days–and in particular, university-based literary journals–you need more.  You need something like what I used to call a head-scratcher that leaves you puzzled if you didn’t get it; with a grand sense of smugness if you did.

So Crows may not fly this week after all.  Instead, this opening line came up:

When Lynda Pfieffer-Cordman told her husband Jeff that she’d signed up for the space shuttle he snorted and told her it was dumb.  That gave her the confirmation she needed to know she’d done the right thing.

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