Monday, July 19, 2004

... And Writing

Thanks to the reminders of my doctor-friend, Aljay, I haven't forgotten about my stories.

I do admit that for a time, I was busy with Life-in-General such that the War between the Short Story and the Novel in my head took to the back burner.

However, after the recent accident, another short story-- one that had been simmering in the dank, slimy depths of my subconcious-- burst into the foreground of my mind, clamoring for my attention.

It also doesn't help that I've been reading a lot of short story collections, ranging from the past Flights anthology to Ellison's collection Hard Candy as well as nibbles from Shepard's The Jaguar Hunter and Datlow/ Windling's Year's Best Fantasy and Horror: Sixteenth Edition (which my girlfriend is currently reading).

Unfortunately, it's one thing for a story to be up and about in my consciousness, kvetching about getting written right NOW! NOW! NOW!; another if that story is still unformed like a melted candle-stick.  So, literally, writing this story feels like taking a dump while constipated... er, uhm. 

Anyway, notwithstanding my toiletry habits, I've recently discovered a blindside to my writing, i.e. I have a hard time writing fantastical elements into my short stories such that they have a tendency to turn into horror-hidden-in-the-realities-of-day-to-day life stories ala Stephen King. 

Huh. Blame my early childhood reading, courtesy of my father's reading tastes. Ever tried reading It while 12 or 13 years old?  Brrr.

Of course, my tendency to re-write while the short story is unfinished isn't helping and is just making me depressed over my writing style.  I want it perfect; I can't help it.  I want the prose to sing, to resonate in my readers' souls. 

And I know how good writing looks like: see Harlan Ellison or Graham Joyce, Arturo Perez-Reverte or Sean Stewart.  But from story idea to writing the actual form, well, it's a long, long road to perfection, baby.



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