I have dreams. Not the sleeping kind, but the kind of aspirational dreams where I’m like, Sure, I can sneak in a new short story for that contest before the end of the month, even though I’m 80,000 words into a new novel and it’s pretty much all I can think about or am interested in these days. Writing short fiction for me is like having that bowl of candy in the house that’s just kind of sitting there, in plain view. And there’s no harm in taking just one, right? And then next thing I know I’m passed out on the floor with skittle-colored drool coming out of my mouth and wondering how the hell I got there.
What I mean to say is that I find short stories distracting, and though I love to write them, I think I have enough experience by this point to know that it would take me away from this novel, in which I am making strides of progress, for far too long. And though I have a good idea – nay, a great idea – I think the short story will sadly have to wait.
No, for me it’s straight and forward with this book. I have been obsessed about things before, but not quite like this. A product of impending (or existing?) madness, perhaps? Or a way for my troubled psyche to escape the dire world-state? Or a sign that this fugue state I seem to be in has divine purpose? I’m agnostic in the divine regard, but I’m compelled by something – be it godly or mundane – and I have to let my soul see it through. The only way out is through and all that.
So it’s noveling for the next little while for me. I’ve got IT work today, but boy do I wish I was working on it now…
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