For the last 262 days, I have written at least 1 page of fiction each day.

That would be really impressive if it was all part of the same work, but, alas, about 90% is unrelated little vignettes, snippets of someone’s thoughts, pieces of their lives, utterly unconnected.

I wish I could make an art project out of them or something, perhaps a huge apartment building and behind each window would be this string of thoughts from one person or another, or perhaps a conversation between the apartment’s inhabitants.

I’m not sure if I have the desire or the ability to write a novel, or even the book of short stories that I have been toying with but I do know I can write shreds of the fabric of people’s lives.  I wonder if I can make a quilt out of them?