They say the life of a writer is never dull. Well, I don’t know if “they” have actually said that—or even who “they” are. These days, we have enough thought police and privacy intrusions to fill the Grand Canyon so the thought of another such regulator(s) is most unwelcome.
While penning blogs day in and day out can get tedious (but I do need to eat), I have enjoyed immensely writing and publishing my poetry collections. I am, understandably, a bit burned out on poetry at the moment. While I was defragging the other day, I found a folder labeled “Bad Writing.” And boy, most of it certainly fit into that category. I shudder to think that some of that drivel actually flowed from my brain into my fingertips, so, instead, I will imagine that my computer at the time was possessed and altered my Pulitzer Prize-worthy literature without my knowledge or consent.
However, there were a few short stories that rather intrigued me. I do remember writing them—or at least starting them—and as I reread some for the first time in many years, I was interested in how they would end. So I began to edit and continue one of them and discovered why I started writing short stories in the first place. First, because it’s writing and I love to write. Second, because I apparently have some sort of God complex that has me placing perfectly normal and likable characters in truly difficult and oftentimes horrifying situations. And finally, because I do not have the patience for what I call “long” fiction (e.g. novels). My novella Trophy Hunter (2011) was a glaring example of my lack of enthusiasm for anything over, say, 60 pages, and hence, why I chose to retire that book. Unfortunately, as I cannot wipe it off the face of the planet as it will show up in Amazon searches forever, I will always have that harsh reminder never to attempt a novel again. Ever. But I may add short stories to my new repertoire.