I recently submitted a short story to my first contest. I’m not as nervous as I thought I would be, just hopeful. I think it’s a good story, and my critique group reviewed it twice; so I know that I’ve done all the revisions that I needed to. I’ll know if it was chosen for the anthology sometime in May.
The topic was crime. I wrote a fictional piece about a flash mob in a store and the repercussions of making a poor choice. Very timely, with all the recent YouTube videos and news reports of stores getting overrun with people who make off with stolen merchandise.
I’m finding that I enjoy writing shorter pieces instead of always being focused on my novels. Short stories give me a sense of instant gratification – I can produce a piece that takes just hours to complete and a couple of days to revise.
Novels, though, are a longer commitment.
It’s not that I have a fear of commitment (I’ve been married for fourteen years); it’s that as I grow older my patience grows shorter. I get frustrated when I can’t exactly get down on paper what’s inside my head. Or when what I am envisioning takes too long to describe.
Maybe I have undiagnosed ADD.
Or a short attention span.
If that’s the case, then writing novels might not be my destined career. Maybe I should write poetry instead. Or short stories.
Wait, I’m already doing that!
No, I think I’ll have my little flings on the side – spit out a flash fiction piece or a poem every once in a while – then get back to my one true love – my novel.