In an industrial suburb of Alicante, the sea gave off a silvery light. I found a place near the rocks, behind the railway line, and away from the dead sardines washed up all along the beach. I was reading a book by Garrison Keillor. He showed me that stories, poems, essays, letters, diary entries, even postcards, were all justified methods of expression. In that case, I was a writer already as I wrote every day in some form or other. It was too early to begin putting the words in this book. But some day those words would drift in far enough for me to hook them and add a little seasoning before serving them up. In the meantime, I would collect ideas in my diary or store them someplace in the back of my mind.
Excerpt from The Iberian Horseshoe © Steven Porter 2007. Originally published by badosa.com and coming to Kindle very soon.