I've been on a seesaw these past few weeks. And it's never going to end. I need someone to get off so that when that empty seat rises towards the clouds my seat will fall to the ground. Only then will I be able to get off, get on with something else.
But I can't decide who to let off. My shouldbe novel and I face the two headed shortstory me; we have an indefinite staring contest. Up and down and up and down.
Because while I know I've been working on this novel for the longest time, I'm suddenly attracted to the idea of short stories flying off into literary journal publication, or even more recently, into the ebook market for sale.
I need to finish this novel. I need to I need to I need to. But something's always in the way.
Every writing outlet online buzzes with Kindle millionaires of late. Previously unpublished authors (and few traditionalists) sell whole novels for under three dollars; now they're millionaires. I figured I could collect some of the unused, well hidden short stories I've amassed and sell them for something near that.
But then when I read and edit them I somehow feel like I'm selling them short. I started writing those with hopes of having them published. Publishing them myself takes the hard part out of it. Maybe I just need the validation.
I've been bracing myself for serious rejection, but what if there wasn't any?
I fear the stench of a hack.