Three to go!

I made the ghost story deadline with only 24 hours to spare. This is my idea of living on the edge...I've had a look at what next (concentrating my thoughts on the next project does make rejection easier) and was slightly shocked to see that the end of my year of stories is approaching fast.

 There's an adult fairy story to submit, which is already at second draft stage (thank goodness. I look ancient enough with the strain of four children, without going grey over deadlines) ; a flash fiction story which will, at least, be fewer words to conjure, although it will need a lot of skill; and then a final story for December which has a given first line. 

I think that final one will be the hardest as I have no ideas what I will write yet, and I know that the deadline will rattle towards me amongst all the Christmas chaos that comes at the back end of a year. But I'm starting to believe I might make it - that I might actually write and submit a short story for every month of the year. 

It will be time then to plan a writing goal for 2014... How are you doing with your writing goals this year? I'd love to hear what goals other people have set, and maybe I can steal one for next year!

Sod's law

If anything that can go wrong eventually will, I might as well embrace pessimism now. I'm certainly working my way through a variety of disasters from the mild and faintly humorous to major and life-changing.

The four-year old, finally mature enough to remember house rules like: "Only draw on paper", drew on the wallpaper at the top of the stairs. A row with my husband cast a cloud over a day. The baby has a strange growth on her inner lip. (The doctor says it's fine and will go away.) A friend had bad news at a hospital appointment. Steam from the dishwasher has made the veneer peel away from the cupboard door, and I really need to fix that before the four-year old spots it and makes it irreparable.

But, "Sometimes things don't go, after all, from bad to worse..." (Sheenagh Pugh). Writing Magazine thumped through the letter-box this morning, and I turned straight to the short story competition, and saw my name in the short-listed column. Wow. Then I looked at the letters page and my name was there, too. Little successes are enough to sweeten a day, even if they can't erase worries about people I love.

Maybe there's a reverse Sod's law  - anything that can go right, eventually WILL. (I might as well be unrealistically optimistic as pessimistic - it's more fun!) What better reason to persevere, than believing that things will eventually go the way you imagine?

The landscape of life

The landscape of our family life has changed enormously in the past two months.

 I'm handling the daily turmoil that comes with a separation, jerking from one emotion to another. My thoughts are an endless stream of non-sequiturs, and the children don't respect my need to lick my wounds in peace. I'm glad; their irreverent happiness and endless demands for attention don't leave room for wallowing, though there are days when I feel like I'm not waving, but drowning.

It's crippled my creativity, but I've kept writing - to friends, my sister, my husband. Maybe one day I can use this bleak time for something. For now, I'm waiting for it to pass.

And September is here; season of the spiders, pressed uniforms, stuffy central heating and turning leaves. The tribe are back at school...and this year, that means three of them. The house feels empty; the baby is a delight and our time together feels like a something to be treasured. She sleeps for a couple of hours a day - hours I could fill with distracting American sit-coms, and which I should fill with domesticity.

I really want to spend those hours writing, and on at least three days I've guiltily indulged myself, dragging myself back to reality for a school run that I'm not fully present at.

 Perhaps I'm recovering - or perhaps next week I'll be sluggish again.

I just hope the baby doesn't grow out of her daytime naps too quickly.

Perspiration

My latest story has been the product of perspiration rather than inspiration. I'm slogging on with my self-set challenge to enter a competition a month and my latest was August's Love Story (with a deadline in September - best not ask, I think).

I'm not feeling loved up at the moment, so it was a feat to think up a love story at all. This was, however, the whole point of my challenge - to write things I didn't FEEL like writing; to force myself to produce in a way I don't usually. I had to cheat slightly and took Rapunzel, one of my favourite (and quite dark) fairy stories as inspiration. It didn't flow; it hiccuped along and I must have written eight drafts, as the deadline raced towards me. There were several times I felt like giving up, and times when plot jams looked impossible to sort out. But I plodded on, and in the end I was quite proud of what I'd achieved.

I'm not sure the story is great - I'm fairly sure when I next look it over it will horrify me. But I was pleased this morning, and when I hit 'send', with only two days to spare, the sense of achievement was more than I have felt for any other story this year. I suppose it has been such an effort, the achievement is proportionally impressive.

I'm especially proud of myself for keeping a promise to myself, to write this story, despite all the excuses (many of which are quite plausible) I could have made. I'm proud of my determination to write...and I'll look back to this high moment next time I'm cringing over a rejection.

Discouraged

It's been a hard summer, with many stresses and stressors, and a strained private life. Each time I find out that one of my stories hasn't achieved anything, it feels like a rejection, which is another word for failure. It makes me question whether I have any potential, and also wonder what it is that I am getting wrong. I'd even like to know if I'm missing by an inch or a mile...but I think I really feel too low to investigate at the moment.
I'll pick myself up tomorrow - or the day after - and remember that the only difference between a published and unpublished writer is perseverance.

Harsh critic

I've read so many pieces of advice that say the same thing in various ways, which is, don't ask your family and friends to read your work. As far as I can tell, this is because a/ they probably don't really know enough about stories to be discerning b/they're hugely biased because they love you c/they'd lie if it was useless because they wouldn't want to hurt your feelings.

I'm sure that I'm not the only one who allows family to read her stories sometimes, even though I take the lying, biased ignoramuses' comments with a pinch of salt. Sometimes it's just good to discuss issues with someone, or to desensitise yourself to exposing your work...

However. I think my husband missed the memo. My latest competition entry for The Year of Stories (a story with a twist) was running perilously close to deadline, and I wasn't happy with it. It seemed a little slow and needed at least 300 words cutting and I wasn't entirely sure how to end it. So I handed it to my husband, who promised to read it "in the advert break". (Perhaps this should have been a warning).

I watched him skim reading (I couldn't keep up, and I'm the faster reader), saw him smother two or three sighs unsuccessfully, then give an audible one. He muttered something about the essay he has to write being shorter than this, then carried on skim reading. He scrolled faster and faster down the page, before turning to me with a "Yeah, it's OK."

I narrowed my eyes. "You didn't read that."

His eyes flicked to the muted TV where his programme was back on. "I did."

"So, what did you think of the twist, then?"

He looked back in undisguised surprise. "There was a twist?!"

Clearly he needs to work on being biased and flattering, and I need to work on making my stories more interesting...Or I could just say that a/ applies, and he doesn't know what he's talking about.

Creative calm

I don't have writer's block. But it's been nearly two months since I blogged, or felt like doing much. If I wasn't so far ahead with my 'year of stories', so that all I had to do was edit the latest, I'd have failed my challenge of entering a comp a month. As it is, the latest one is not yet complete and the deadline is in six days, but I think I'll make it.

So what's going on?

Life. Not busyness, but more like a mild depression. It's sucked out much of my joy, most of my energy and all my equilibrium. Getting out of bed is effortful; being a sunny mum is hit-and-miss. There've been a lot of upheavals and they've knocked me down flat on my back. Some days I make up a story as I walk, or shower, but most days the thought of doing so is exhausting. My confidence in myself is low, and even lower in my writing (justifiably, you may be thinking).

I know it will pass. Things will get better, even if they get worse first (this is why I can say this is mild. I still have a sense of hope and perspective, despite the odd real black day). When things get better, I can be prolific and aim again for my dreams. Fingers crossed it won't be long...at least I've blogged again, even if it wasn't very inspiring!