Eventually you’ll figure it out, so let me save you some time: The office with a view over my mental warehouse is usually empty or on fire. I’m all over the place with process and attitude and dreams. Most of what I do as a writer is sneak up on myself with a sock full of doorknobs, revel briefly in the novelty and surprise, and then wait for the next sock to come along.
I favorited this tweet so hard I almost put a hole through my screen:
Several years ago, I (mostly) stopped sending my stories out.
I had a few reasons. One of the reasons, the totally movie-ready one that’s now basically over and done, you’ll be able to read about in an upcoming anthology! But another big reason was about not enjoying the actual work anymore, and that scared the hell out of me.
The repair was to turn from flash fiction to longer fiction. No big deal, I thought. …