*bitch*

I hate writing biographies of myself.

accomplishments

I have run errands.

As part of my errand-running, I have lobbed out TWO (count 'em, TWO) turnips, the new novella and the older novella that's been giving me fits marketwise. I finally just said, Fuck it. It can't get published if I don't send it anywhere, and picked a market for horror that accepts 10k novellas. I feel bloody-minded but triumphant.

This makes eleven stories that are out and circulating (meaning that I'm not embarrassed to own up to them in public), plus the eight that have already sold. I mention this only because three years ago, I would have told you with absolute sincerity that I couldn't write short stories at all. Irony. Good for the blood.

I don't know what happened. I'd been trying and failing to write short stories since high school, trying and failing, trying and failing. And then it was like somebody threw a switch in my brain, and I understood how to do it. Not that every story I've written since has been successful (*hollow laugh*), but it's like striking out occasionally versus not knowing which end of the bat to hold.

It came to me in a dream. And I wish I were speaking metaphorically or myth-making or something, but I'm not. I had a dream that presented a complete action, to use a creative-writing book phrase that might as well have been in Sanskrit for all the sense I had ever gotten out of it; I woke up thinking, That's a short story and wrote it down before I lost my nerve. That story is not entirely successful--I'm rewriting it in fits and starts because I know a bunch of ways it can be better--but it leveraged the lock open. I kept writing the damn things. The second short story I wrote after my small epiphany was the first story I sold, a year and a quarter ago.

And I still can't explain what happened. But I'm not arguing with it.

behind the scenes

heres_luck keeps a quote book. If you want to see the sort of insane conversations we get into, she's posted excerpts.