The damned things are breeding like bunnies: I have seven short stories in progress, plus a double-handful of fragments and ideas, and just added another to the list. Plus, um, three novels-in-progress. One entirely drafted and being revised (yes, really), one about 2/3 way through, but in need of gobs of work, and one in near-complete outline. Plus a fourth, that has setting and character, and nothing else.
Yes, even at that developmental stage I can tell the difference between a novel idea and a story idea. The latter is a geode, something small and shiny that I can cup in my hands, while a novel idea is the entire landscape.
I don’t think I ever posted a picture of the faeriestone I found along the shore of Lake Michigan. It’s dark gray and black, and has holes pierced all the way through. I can hold it to my eye and see out the other side, always useful for seeing things that aren’t there. And it’s sparkly inside.
That’s a short story.
I have three that need to be tweaked and resubmitted. They should not spend as much time lazing around the house as they do. The dog and the cat are entitled; the stories need someone else to love them. I’m tempted to shove them farther down the food chain, just to get them out, but I will try a few more of the top places first.
And then there are the three stories that I need to finish. This morning’s plan was to arise early and work on them. One has a lovely (well, not really at all pleasant, but eye-catching) beginning and an ending that makes me happy, but neither title nor middle. The second was started for a project-with-deadline, and it has a setting and character and feel and ending, plus some thoughts, but I’ve found an even more appropriate place to send it, one which would avoid a constraint that’s been niggling at me. And the third? That’s the replacement for the deadline-intended story that’s been sidetracked. It has a title, and a disturbing and intriguing main character, and a potential ending. I can work with that, I think.
I have the most fun writing short stories if, like the geode, I have the entire tale in my grasp before I write it. Sometimes I have to write it to learn what the tale is, and I have a harder time with that.
So as I said, I was going to write early this morning, when it was quiet and cool. Instead, I have been stalking authors I like on the internets (reading old blogs, nothing actually creepy). This is interesting, and perhaps somewhat useful even, but not directly relevant to any of the things I should be doing. The same is true for blogging, and yet.
I also picked a bowl of black raspberries and made them into whole-wheat sourdough scones, a practice I highly recommend.
I should be finishing these stories, and I should be working, because I am desperately behind at the office. And there is this fascinating side project that should have been done a year ago. I am ever full of things to do, in a way that vastly exceeds my ability to do them. And this is after weeding out the less-suitable ones, truly.
So. I will go look for a story-middle or two in the shower, and I will make a caffeinated beverage that it isn’t too hot to drink, and I will turn off the internet (much though I love you all), and I will write.
