Sometimes I have so much fun I really don't know how I contain myself. Take yesterday for example. I managed to finish getting my snowthrower a tune-up and 'shocked' my brand new well. The tune-up only took as long as changing a spark plug, because everything else had been done the day before. The well on the other hand took hours. Not so long actually putting the bleach in it, but to flush it out of the system was time consuming. I still refuse to wash a load of clothes with any color in them. Then last night while the boy played in the tub I managed to get another 500 words down in a story/book. I don't know where this one is heading. It depends on how many subplots I can throw at it. I think I could throw a lot at it, it is making them stick that is the problem.
I noticed Aaron describing his linear way of thinking being more conducive to short story writing than novel writing earlier this week. I have the same problem. For 15 years of my writing I never thought past the short story. I didn't have to. I had a story, I told it, I was done with it. Now I want to move on, not completely away from the short story. I like them. They are like childhood friends. You never really want to say goodbye to them.
Sadly, while I was trying to introduce myself to the novel I seem to have lost touch with my old friend the short story. He doesn't stop by to play anymore it seems. What is really pissing me off is that my new friend, the novel, doesn't want to come over to play right now either.
Maybe when it is warmer we can all get together and have a barbecue, have a few beers.
I wonder what poetry is doing this time of the year?
Zombicide Black Plague: STILL not done
1 day ago