[url redacted, because I've begun to submit this to contests, etc.]
Because I feel guilty for not writing blog posts more regularly, and because I think whoever’s reading this blog should probably have some idea of my writing style, and because I want free publicity, I thought I’d write about this short story, for lack of anything else to talk about. Think of this as a kind of self-review/critique.
I like this short story. I’m rather proud of how it turned out, to be honest. I feel like I described the setting well. I introduced my main character as well as anyone can be introduced when they don’t have a name – through showing instead of telling. Instead of saying that the narrator was a kleptomaniac who comes from a poor family and resents the rich and doesn’t fit in at school, I presented her as a girl sitting by herself in a field, apart from her classmates, plucking at threads on her hole-filled jeans and fingers twitching as she looks at a man’s nice, expensive watch… Sometimes I have problems with show versus tell, so I think it actually turned out pretty well.
I liked the science-fictioney premise I based the story on, I liked the characters, and I even managed to slip in a few profound musings that I thought were also good…
I am pleased.
But I am also afraid.
Because up until relatively recently, I hardly ever wrote short stories. And the short stories I did write ended up being 15,000 words long. Now, since finishing the rough draft of a novel, I’ve barely written anything in novel form, and have instead written a bunch of (still admittedly long) short stories.
What if I’ve devolved into someone who can only write short stories? What if I’m never able to write a full-length novel ever again?
What if my goal of two 50,000 word novels this November is completely unattainable?
I supposed I’ll just have to trust for now… In God, in myself, and in my technology…
Oh, dear. A bad omen for that last one: my phone just broke and I’m no longer receiving any texts. O.o
Wish me luck,