Sometimes we have to let things we experience age a while in our souls before they ripen into a knowing. I'm with Henry James, who wrote "Experience is never limited, and it is never complete; it is an immense sensibility, a kind of huge spider-web of the finest silken threads suspended in the chamber of consciousness, and catching every air-borne particle in its tissue."
In other words, I had to live a sum of life before Ford's meaning reached my consciousness.
I understand now. My short story "When the Wind Blows the Water Grey" represents my first published fiction. And it got that way because I finally wrote above my head, I believe. What does that mean? …
Or: head to the full bulletin from Glimmer Train.