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sinanju...and all thru the house not a creature was stirring--wait, actually, the only creature in this house not stirring is my lovely and talented wife, who is in bed asleep.
Seeing as how we celebrate Hannukah here, rather than Christmas, the point is mostly moot anyhow. Hannukah is over. There's no Christmas tree here, no stockings by the fireplace--no fireplace, for that matter--no one anxiously awaiting the arrival (real or imagined) of Santa Claus. We will be seeing the kids on Sunday to exchange some gifts, but that's on Sunday.
In other news, I didn't write anything today. I polished up "The Wild One" and then emailed it to a publisher in hopes that they'll accept it. Then I spent some time reading short stories in Analog, Realms of Fantasy, and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. So I guess today was mostly dedicated to literary input rather than output.
I'm feeling insecurity gnawing at my self-confidence lately. Yes, I'm being accepted by Cobblestone, but whatelse do you have for us today, Sinanju? I know this is just something I have to learn to deal with, and that I mustn't let it stop me. But it's tough sometimes. I fear that I won't be able to think of anything else to write, or that it won't be any good.
Then I remind myself that the latter--deciding whether something is good enough to publish--is not my job. MY job is to write to the best of my ability, and then send the story out to to an editor. It is his (or her) job to decide whether it's worth publishing. That reminder should take some of the pressure off--and it does, when I remember it. My internal critic, however, must have had a job as rust at some point in the past ("Rust never sleeps!"). He's relentless.
It helps sometimes to imagine him speaking in Mickey Mouse's voice. Or Donald Duck's. Then he's almost indecipherable. Or to take him by the hand and lead him gently into a large, empty auditorium and gently but firmly lock the door behind him, so he can rant away to his heart's content.
I also still wrestle with an exaggerated idea of NOVEL. It's novel as huge, weighty tome with a cast of thousands and intricate, interwined stories, and heavy enough to use as a doorstop. I can't write one of those! It's impossible!
Except that I don't have to. There are plenty of published novels, novels I think are great, that are nothing like that. And frankly, that's not the sort of novel I'd probably write anyhow. My voice doesn't lend itself to that kind of writing, and it doesn't have to. Plus, whatever I write isn't going to be perfect. Ever. And neither is any other work of fiction.
That's something to keep in mind, too--but damned difficult sometimes. How often are my favorite novels the FIRST novel the respective authors published (we'll ignore unpublished early efforts)? Exactly none. It doesn't have to be perfect. It has to be good...in the opinion of someone in a position to actually publish it; i.e., not me. It should be fun to write and fun to read. I think I can do that, at least sometimes I think so. Other days, not so much. But mostly I think so.
So, anyhow, I didn't write anything new today. I did, however, polish and mail out a story. Which means the number of stories currently in circulation is now up to twelve. Could be better, but that's pretty good.
Stories in Circulation: 12
Rejections: 24
Stories Accepted: FIVE
Seeing as how we celebrate Hannukah here, rather than Christmas, the point is mostly moot anyhow. Hannukah is over. There's no Christmas tree here, no stockings by the fireplace--no fireplace, for that matter--no one anxiously awaiting the arrival (real or imagined) of Santa Claus. We will be seeing the kids on Sunday to exchange some gifts, but that's on Sunday.
In other news, I didn't write anything today. I polished up "The Wild One" and then emailed it to a publisher in hopes that they'll accept it. Then I spent some time reading short stories in Analog, Realms of Fantasy, and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine. So I guess today was mostly dedicated to literary input rather than output.
I'm feeling insecurity gnawing at my self-confidence lately. Yes, I'm being accepted by Cobblestone, but what
Then I remind myself that the latter--deciding whether something is good enough to publish--is not my job. MY job is to write to the best of my ability, and then send the story out to to an editor. It is his (or her) job to decide whether it's worth publishing. That reminder should take some of the pressure off--and it does, when I remember it. My internal critic, however, must have had a job as rust at some point in the past ("Rust never sleeps!"). He's relentless.
It helps sometimes to imagine him speaking in Mickey Mouse's voice. Or Donald Duck's. Then he's almost indecipherable. Or to take him by the hand and lead him gently into a large, empty auditorium and gently but firmly lock the door behind him, so he can rant away to his heart's content.
I also still wrestle with an exaggerated idea of NOVEL. It's novel as huge, weighty tome with a cast of thousands and intricate, interwined stories, and heavy enough to use as a doorstop. I can't write one of those! It's impossible!
Except that I don't have to. There are plenty of published novels, novels I think are great, that are nothing like that. And frankly, that's not the sort of novel I'd probably write anyhow. My voice doesn't lend itself to that kind of writing, and it doesn't have to. Plus, whatever I write isn't going to be perfect. Ever. And neither is any other work of fiction.
That's something to keep in mind, too--but damned difficult sometimes. How often are my favorite novels the FIRST novel the respective authors published (we'll ignore unpublished early efforts)? Exactly none. It doesn't have to be perfect. It has to be good...in the opinion of someone in a position to actually publish it; i.e., not me. It should be fun to write and fun to read. I think I can do that, at least sometimes I think so. Other days, not so much. But mostly I think so.
So, anyhow, I didn't write anything new today. I did, however, polish and mail out a story. Which means the number of stories currently in circulation is now up to twelve. Could be better, but that's pretty good.
Stories in Circulation: 12
Rejections: 24
Stories Accepted: FIVE