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Short story limp-along
Jan. 29th, 2018 07:29 amWell, that's a bit sad. Early last week, a sick (twisted, not 'fully sick, man') idea came to me for a new short story. So I popped down a few hundred words, and I thought it sang, but I had no idea how to progress the story beyond the bare bones of the idea. A Jane Austen pastiche of the weirdest sort, I had my scene, and my characters ready made.
This morning, as part of my 'write first thing' regime, I woke, staggered to the computer, and armed only with lemon water, and Angel sitting near me, enjoying the early morning light, I dove in.
All to find that my writing joints have seized, the story now flops like a corpse, and I suspect it's dead in the water.
Oh, I'll continue to play with the corpse, because I don't have any other ideas bubbling, and I'm trying to keep faith with my Muse, and mind. Alas, I suspect that because I didn't develop the story, the Muse took the idea to visit upon some other writer. So, look out sueicorn, capt_lychee, snakypoet, or someone else. You may have an Austen pastiche of the creepiest sort sneak upon you very soon.
This is what comes of sporadic practice, and the firm belief that I can no longer write fiction.
Poor floppy story, and PizzaBoy did so like your beginning.
I think longingly of 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies', even though I think it's a one-trick pony that could have been a short story. I think of 'Pride and Platypus'. All the other Austen pastiches and parodies in the world.
Okay, face it, my story's died. It can join the compost pile in the back of the writing files, and let's move along.
I tried, Muse, I did. But I admit to letting fear, laziness, and life get in the way. But I'm here now, sitting at my little low table, on my peanut cushion, in the semi-cool breeze of 7.30am. Angel to the left of me, Tilly TinyPony sprawled to the right.
Muse, have at me. I'm sorry. Please come back.
This morning, as part of my 'write first thing' regime, I woke, staggered to the computer, and armed only with lemon water, and Angel sitting near me, enjoying the early morning light, I dove in.
All to find that my writing joints have seized, the story now flops like a corpse, and I suspect it's dead in the water.
Oh, I'll continue to play with the corpse, because I don't have any other ideas bubbling, and I'm trying to keep faith with my Muse, and mind. Alas, I suspect that because I didn't develop the story, the Muse took the idea to visit upon some other writer. So, look out sueicorn, capt_lychee, snakypoet, or someone else. You may have an Austen pastiche of the creepiest sort sneak upon you very soon.
This is what comes of sporadic practice, and the firm belief that I can no longer write fiction.
Poor floppy story, and PizzaBoy did so like your beginning.
I think longingly of 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies', even though I think it's a one-trick pony that could have been a short story. I think of 'Pride and Platypus'. All the other Austen pastiches and parodies in the world.
Okay, face it, my story's died. It can join the compost pile in the back of the writing files, and let's move along.
I tried, Muse, I did. But I admit to letting fear, laziness, and life get in the way. But I'm here now, sitting at my little low table, on my peanut cushion, in the semi-cool breeze of 7.30am. Angel to the left of me, Tilly TinyPony sprawled to the right.
Muse, have at me. I'm sorry. Please come back.