I was reading a post by Chuck Wendig about his 5th birthday as a novelist, and while my head reeled at the very notion of 20 novels in five years, one message rang out like a klaxon: if you want to be a writer, you have to write. He’s not the first to say it, of course, but that doesn’t change the fact.
I’ve been pretty pleased with what I’ve been managing these past few weeks, although it turns out some days I don’t have energy to write, especially days I work. I’ve got a lot of stuff percolating, the ideas are there, I just need to Get. Them. Down. Plus if you follow me on Twitter you’ll know the combination of Trump, the ongoing omnishambles of the LNP government here, and the snap election in the UK have me absolutely frothing about politics and I could certainly use that time more productively…
So here I am again, re-committing to getting words down and putting them up. The putting them up part is important right now because…that demon self-doubt is back and I find myself leaving drafts unfinished, or editing and re-editing and never finishing.
The Human Experience
So, in the spirit of the above…drum roll please…a new flash fiction, no crime this time, a little bit of science fiction, playing with one of Douglas Adams’ ideas: that being ‘infinitely prolonged’ would be a bit of a bore after a while.
As always, your feedback good, bad and ugly is desperately craved/ welcome.