This is just a small wave, and a note to say: last night, I finished my newest short story. HOORAY! I’ve been trying to write the last scene or two for a week now. Got ’em done. Think it came out okay, but we’ll find out when I show it to people. (Which won’t be quite yet. I like to let them sit for a bit. aging. Like wine. Or tea. But not quite so long.)
The Professor approves my modernized “Fall of the House of Usher” stuff, which makes me happy, because I’m interested in the story I’ve come up with. He wants to see some of it by Thanksgiving. Given the length of that time frame, I hope to have the story FINISHED by Thanksgiving.
For now, my main focus is on the novel I’m working on. It’s called “The Man Upstairs,” and grew out of a busted short story I wrote. I think there are legs there, I just have to find them. I’m not a natural novel-writer like some people I know, who make it look effortless which is why they must die which is why they write books and I turn out short stories.
I rummaged on one of my bookshelves the other night and discovered a paperback by Ed Gorman. I’ve owned it for eight or nine years now without ever cracking it open. I own a lot of books I simply haven’t had an interest in yet. This time, it appealed to my mindset. I opened it and discovered it’s a book of short stories, something I just had no clue of. That always makes me happy, I adore short stories. It also explains something about my houseful of books, some of which I just wouldn’t pick up. I will someday, or I did at some point in the past. I read nearly everything, given time.
Time to go eat, drink, write.
Love & Constant Comment