Strange what’s happening. Or maybe not so strange. I started a short story last week and I noticed this week that my mind keeps making dips like: maybe this can become a novel. Why couldn’t this be the YA that my agent is always trying to get me to write? Or, I can write connecting stories and……….
The reason I say it may not be strange is because at heart I’m a novelist. I thought that writing ss would free me. It did at first…by that I mean the first six pages or so. But as the story kept growing, taking side trips, one thing reminding me of another, the long fingers of the novel snagged me. And what’s really odd (for me) is that my family keeps creeping into this thing.
Writing ss I know there’s not a chance in hell that I’d sell one and that’s where the freedom comes in. But with a novel there’s always that hope in me even though I know it’s one of the worst periods in publishing.
I don’t want to think about writing a novel. But I also want to keep writing. I’ll have to press on and let my mind do its tricks and try not to pay attention. I don’t hold out much hope for that.