I didn’t know when I sat down at my computer tonight I would finish the first draft of the first short story I have written since leaving university in 2007.
I am mighty pleased with myself.
Interruptions from the boys: one (the baby cried but I never mind extra cuddles). Interruptions from the husband: numerous (but he also read the first few lines for me so that makes up for it).
I’ve fallen in love again with writing and some of the things only a fellow writer will understand. My protagonist – bastard – gave himself a name that I really didn’t like. But he won and it’s stuck. How is it our characters have so much power over us? After all, if it wasn’t for the writer they would never have a voice in the first place.
I also did not think I would have to google “UK’s tallest man” or “tallest celebrities” as part of my research for this particular story. Damn him – he wanted to be big too.
This particular story involves some weird things though. Mainly one. A rather odd fetish. My search history is starting to look rather disturbing. How do our brains even think of this stuff? It really does seem to write itself some days. I’ve missed that.
But it’s hard isn’t it? I feel like I’m in infant school writing my very first story (complete with illustrations of course) just with more words in my toolbox. Everything feels and sounds childish and amateur.
I cannot let the inner critic win though because I am entering it in a short story competition (https://norwichwriters.wordpress.com/competitions/open-competition/). There is not a single part of me which thinks I will win but every part of me is ready to get serious – so why not throw myself in at the deep end?