We spread a blanket off to one side of the boat launch, under some trees. Island Lake, in Shelton, Washington, is surrounded by small private homes, and this is the only public access. Since it's still early in the season and the homeowners tend to take the lake for granted, there are no boats or skiers out.
It's 1972, and we're both seventeen.
That's how the story begins. The story "Don't Stop Now" in Hobart.
Hobart is one of my favorite literary journals, and the story appears this month in the online edition.
It's basically a distillation of a novel I started writing in 1972 when I was 17. Two hundred forty-four pages down to five. Reader's Digest, eat your heart out.
Like many first novels, mine was awful (embarrassingly so) and now languishes in the back of a closet, where it belongs. The short story, on the other hand, is pretty darn good. An editor at Esquire called it "a pleasure to read," even if it wasn't really appropriate for the magazine.
More importantly, Hobart loved it.
So, don't stop now; hop on over to Hobart and check it out.