I finished the short story yesterday: yay me!
That might sound rather self-congratulatory to some of you, but believe me, I don’t have enough literary notches on the bedpost for me to be blasé about completing a short story.
I still get a rush from the act of seducing, and conquering, a story. So much so that I have to swagger into the metaphorical bar and ask my friends, with Groucho Marx-like raised eyebrows and a lecherous grin,
“Guess what I did last night?”
It’s sad and pathetic, but damn it feels good.
I look forward to the point when I can feign modesty and only make discrete references to my latest conquest as I drink my espresso and watch, from behind dark glasses, the other pretty stories walk into the café.
The story ended up being rather dark and disturbing, but I’m pleased with the quality of the writing.
It’s not perfect–I’ll probably wait all my life to write the perfect story–but I think it indicates a certain level of competence.
We’ll see what I think of it after the reviewers get through with it… I’ll probably want to hang myself.
Ah, the writer’s life: minutes of joy followed by hours of depression.