Some of you may recall that I had a bout with gingivitis a few years back, and while I've defeated it, my gums have receded a bit too much. I wound up losing a tooth to it. I got an implant, as described in my old multi-part "Tales of Dentistry." The dentist I'm about to talk about is referred to as Dentist Two in the second part of that series.
I recently went to my dentist for a cleaning, and the hygienist said that my gums on tooth 26 had receded too far, to the point where if I did nothing about it, I would lose that tooth. Dentist one referred me to dentist two again for a skin graft.
I just got back from my Vegas vacation, so I had the day off to recover. Because it sounded urgent, I decided to go in for my gum graft today and get that over with. It went very well. There were no issues. However, after, when I was setting up my appointment to get the stitches taken out, the receptionist suddenly remembered me. Dentist two remembered fairly well, but the receptionist suddenly had total recall.
She asked me if I used to come in with my grandfather. I did. She asked me if I was a writer. I was (and still am, in case all of you have forgotten). She asked me if I liked horror, and I said yes.
Then, she said something very odd to me. She said that she remembered thinking about this nice young man who used to come in with his grandfather, who needed a tooth implant. Immediately, I thought, "Oh shit." Because I was on my best behavior due to the fact I was going to see a dentist whom I didn't know. (I don't act like myself if I'm in such a situation.) Also, my grandfather was with me because I was on trial for DUI at the time. If he didn't drive me, I couldn't make it to the dentist.
But then she said that she wanted to set me up with her daughter, who really likes horror books, whose husband she hated. I wanted to tell her about the way I really am, but I knew it would just be more awkward, so I stayed silent.
And then she asked about how my writing career was going, so I talked vaguely about my first book, STRIP, from MUSA, and my second book, TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE, from StrangeHouse. Also, I told her my third book was coming out soon, although I didn't mention the title. It's pretty vulgar, and it might change by the time it comes out. But still.
The next thing I know, she's telling everyone else in the office that I'm a writer of horror and crime. All of a sudden, everyone, including Dentist Two, wants to read my books. They said they were going to look me up on Amazon.
I didn't dare tell them that my second book features a space giant fucking the sun, as provided by the awesome Jesse Wheeler.
Only one of them strikes me as someone who might enjoy my work. The others? Let's just say that my next visit to the office should be . . . interesting.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Thursday, November 13, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #114: RADIO SILENCE FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS
While most of my writer friends are heading out to BizzaroCon for the weekend, I'll be heading out to see my family in Vegas. I'm sure I'll pop in here and there, but for the most part, expect radio silence until Tuesday, maybe Wednesday (since when I get back, I'll be undergoing oral surgery). I'm not going to be writing, either, not even GF. I'll probably write in my travel journal, but that's it. In the meantime, behave yourselves, and don't die. I like you all, and I'd be sad if you weren't around anymore.
Now I've got to get to bed. The cab is coming at 4 in the damn am.
Part of me hopes that the oral surgeon will prescribe pain pills for me. Another part of me hopes she won't. I know I can easily turn into a junkie. I'd suck cock for Dilaudid, hands down. The pain pills don't do much for me, unless I triple the dose. Then? I'm very happy. But I have maybe ten pain pills left from a surgery performed a year ago. I'm pretty sure that's evidence that I haven't turned into a junkie. Yet.
She won't do it, though. She told me the procedure is 10 minutes long. 20, tops. She'll just numb my gums a little--A LITTLE--before she cuts a piece off the roof of my mouth and grafts it on to tooth #26 (so my receding gums don't look quite so scary anymore). That doesn't sound like something she'll give me pain pills for. She'll probably advise aspirin. Fuck.
Now I've got to get to bed. The cab is coming at 4 in the damn am.
Part of me hopes that the oral surgeon will prescribe pain pills for me. Another part of me hopes she won't. I know I can easily turn into a junkie. I'd suck cock for Dilaudid, hands down. The pain pills don't do much for me, unless I triple the dose. Then? I'm very happy. But I have maybe ten pain pills left from a surgery performed a year ago. I'm pretty sure that's evidence that I haven't turned into a junkie. Yet.
She won't do it, though. She told me the procedure is 10 minutes long. 20, tops. She'll just numb my gums a little--A LITTLE--before she cuts a piece off the roof of my mouth and grafts it on to tooth #26 (so my receding gums don't look quite so scary anymore). That doesn't sound like something she'll give me pain pills for. She'll probably advise aspirin. Fuck.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #113: A LACK OF IDEAS
Sorry, my head's all fucked up right now. I'm trying to think something through. I received a letter today that threw me completely off, and I'm not even feeling like myself right now. I don't even know what I was going to write for tonight's GF, anyway. For nights like this, I have a list of back-up ideas, just in case I can't think of what I should talk about. They're not written beforehand, though; they're just ideas.
For as long as I can remember, I've always had something to write. I'm sure when I was in elementary school, there were gaps, but to the best of my memory, I've always had something to write ever since I started.
Often I wonder what I would do if I didn't have an idea to work with, and I rarely find myself in such a situation. There's always something to tinker with, at the very least. There is occasionally a fear in the back of my head that when I get through the list of ideas I have on tap, that I might not have any more ideas after that, and I frustrate myself by trying to think of what I would do in such an instance.
Except, now that I think about it, there actually WAS one time that I had nothing to write. It was many years ago, maybe 13 years. I didn't have a single idea to work with, but I still had to write. I couldn't just waste away in front of a blank screen. I recently discovered a collection of writing exercises I did back then. There are about 15 of them, one for each night, just to make sure my writing abilities stayed sharp.
They're kind of odd to read because they're not exactly stories. They're descriptions of mundane things. One time I wrote about my commute to and from work. Another time I described someone I saw walking down the sidewalk. Hell, there was even a time when I described a time I jerked off. That's how bored I was, but I had to write. The compulsion is in me. If I don't, I start feeling weird. The world doesn't connect with me. I start doubting my own existence. Sometimes I think that writing is the only thing that stands between me and a healthy dose of schizophrenia.
Luckily, this has only ever happened once in my life. I hope it never happens again. To writers who wonder what to do with themselves when they don't have ideas, I highly recommend this type of exercise. I don't know what the fuck I would have done if I hadn't occupied my mind like this.
Some of you might wonder about the letter I received. I can't talk about it right now, as it is of a very personal nature. Maybe I'll write about it some day, but I need to sort through a few things in my head before I ever do that. It has nothing to do with writing, though.
For as long as I can remember, I've always had something to write. I'm sure when I was in elementary school, there were gaps, but to the best of my memory, I've always had something to write ever since I started.
Often I wonder what I would do if I didn't have an idea to work with, and I rarely find myself in such a situation. There's always something to tinker with, at the very least. There is occasionally a fear in the back of my head that when I get through the list of ideas I have on tap, that I might not have any more ideas after that, and I frustrate myself by trying to think of what I would do in such an instance.
Except, now that I think about it, there actually WAS one time that I had nothing to write. It was many years ago, maybe 13 years. I didn't have a single idea to work with, but I still had to write. I couldn't just waste away in front of a blank screen. I recently discovered a collection of writing exercises I did back then. There are about 15 of them, one for each night, just to make sure my writing abilities stayed sharp.
They're kind of odd to read because they're not exactly stories. They're descriptions of mundane things. One time I wrote about my commute to and from work. Another time I described someone I saw walking down the sidewalk. Hell, there was even a time when I described a time I jerked off. That's how bored I was, but I had to write. The compulsion is in me. If I don't, I start feeling weird. The world doesn't connect with me. I start doubting my own existence. Sometimes I think that writing is the only thing that stands between me and a healthy dose of schizophrenia.
Luckily, this has only ever happened once in my life. I hope it never happens again. To writers who wonder what to do with themselves when they don't have ideas, I highly recommend this type of exercise. I don't know what the fuck I would have done if I hadn't occupied my mind like this.
Some of you might wonder about the letter I received. I can't talk about it right now, as it is of a very personal nature. Maybe I'll write about it some day, but I need to sort through a few things in my head before I ever do that. It has nothing to do with writing, though.
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #112: A NIGHT AT THE SPRING INN
You might be wondering why there wasn't a GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS last night. A friend I haven't seen in maybe two years came to town, and I hung out with him and his brother at the Spring Inn last night, drinking maybe a bit more than I should have. By the time I got home, I wanted nothing more than to fall into bed. I think it was about 1:30, which would explain why I was so hungover at work today.
I really should drink more often at the Spring Inn. I miss that place. Once upon a time, I used to be in there at least once a week. In fact, back in my early to mid-twenties, I drank in a bar every weeknight. Monday's were spent at Doc Ryan's because they had dollar pints. Tuesdays were Elmhurst Public House nights because they had dollar personal pitchers. Wednesdays were random bar nights, which I sometimes went to, but didn't always make it. Thursdays were spent at what used to be called Lucky Strike. I forget what it is now, though. I think it's Fitz's Seven-Ten, or something. And then Friday nights were spent at Spring Inn, at least until closing, at which point we'd all go over to Brauerhouse back when it was in Berkeley, since it stayed open one hour later. Brauerhouse has since burned down, which sucks because it was a fucking great place to get drunk. They moved out to Lombard, but I hear it's just not the same. One day, I'll give it a shot, but I don't know if I want to make new memories at a place that probably can't hold a candle to the memories I made in the old place.
Holy fuck. I drank heavily every night. Those were the good old days. But my favorite was always Spring Inn. It's a neighborhood bar, not a sports bar or a college bar or any of that shit. It's a small place that doesn't serve food. Back in the old days, if you went there, it was almost a certainty that you wouldn't get laid there. If you were drinking there, you were drinking to get fucked the fuck up. That's important to me. Sometimes, you want to have the possibility of sex, but there was a certain freedom in not having that at the front of your brain.
How did things go last night? Perfectly, I think. It's good to know that the Spring Inn is still the cheapest place to get fucked up in Elmhurst. I drank like a fiend, and I had a thirty dollar bill at the end of the night. Anywhere else in the area, and it would have cost me seventy. It's good to know that the same bartender is still there, and that he remembers me. I don't know if he'd be cool with me mentioning his name, so I won't. Every once in a while, he'll supply us with a free drink, and that is the key to being a great bartender. Hell, in my opinion, he's the best. That's why I always tip him more than any sane man would. (Of course, that could be the Italian in my blood, but I don't think so. If he sucked, I wouldn't kick in quite so much.)
It's good to know that it's still a great place for conversation. You can hang out, drink, play darts, etc. But it's mostly a place to talk shit about whatever you enjoy. Whatever you hate. Whatever helps you through the night. It's usually dead on weeknights, but last night it was almost empty. It's kind of disappointing, because more people means the higher probability of adventure. But also at the same time, it's encouraging because it's a more intimate setting where you don't have to shout to be heard.
Most importantly: it's good to know that metal still reigns supreme at the Spring Inn. Near the end of the night, Metallica blasted out to us, which brought me back to my hard-drinking days of yore.
Last call came about. I guzzled one more Wild Turkey 101--because the Spring Inn is the only bar in the area that has WT101, the finest whiskey known to humanity--and we went out into the streets, where I hung out with my friend and his brother for a while longer, while they had one more cigarette. (Because my friend has been abroad, he was surprised to discover that you couldn't smoke in bars around here.) And then, I went home, where I stumbled up to bed.
I can't tell you how many nights I've stumbled up to bed after drinking at the Spring Inn. I haven't been there since the last time my friend was in town. I think. Actually, no. Another friend was passing through, and we went to the Spring Inn for a brief hang before heading out to Elgin for some serious boozing. But for a guy who used to go to the Spring Inn every week? Two times in two years is a terrible rate.
I think I shouldn't neglect my favorite bar anymore.
I've been icing my drinks since my pancreas problem. The bartender didn't know about my health issues, so when I asked for whiskey with ice in it, he looked at me kind of weird.
My reputation precedes me . . .
I really should drink more often at the Spring Inn. I miss that place. Once upon a time, I used to be in there at least once a week. In fact, back in my early to mid-twenties, I drank in a bar every weeknight. Monday's were spent at Doc Ryan's because they had dollar pints. Tuesdays were Elmhurst Public House nights because they had dollar personal pitchers. Wednesdays were random bar nights, which I sometimes went to, but didn't always make it. Thursdays were spent at what used to be called Lucky Strike. I forget what it is now, though. I think it's Fitz's Seven-Ten, or something. And then Friday nights were spent at Spring Inn, at least until closing, at which point we'd all go over to Brauerhouse back when it was in Berkeley, since it stayed open one hour later. Brauerhouse has since burned down, which sucks because it was a fucking great place to get drunk. They moved out to Lombard, but I hear it's just not the same. One day, I'll give it a shot, but I don't know if I want to make new memories at a place that probably can't hold a candle to the memories I made in the old place.
Holy fuck. I drank heavily every night. Those were the good old days. But my favorite was always Spring Inn. It's a neighborhood bar, not a sports bar or a college bar or any of that shit. It's a small place that doesn't serve food. Back in the old days, if you went there, it was almost a certainty that you wouldn't get laid there. If you were drinking there, you were drinking to get fucked the fuck up. That's important to me. Sometimes, you want to have the possibility of sex, but there was a certain freedom in not having that at the front of your brain.
How did things go last night? Perfectly, I think. It's good to know that the Spring Inn is still the cheapest place to get fucked up in Elmhurst. I drank like a fiend, and I had a thirty dollar bill at the end of the night. Anywhere else in the area, and it would have cost me seventy. It's good to know that the same bartender is still there, and that he remembers me. I don't know if he'd be cool with me mentioning his name, so I won't. Every once in a while, he'll supply us with a free drink, and that is the key to being a great bartender. Hell, in my opinion, he's the best. That's why I always tip him more than any sane man would. (Of course, that could be the Italian in my blood, but I don't think so. If he sucked, I wouldn't kick in quite so much.)
It's good to know that it's still a great place for conversation. You can hang out, drink, play darts, etc. But it's mostly a place to talk shit about whatever you enjoy. Whatever you hate. Whatever helps you through the night. It's usually dead on weeknights, but last night it was almost empty. It's kind of disappointing, because more people means the higher probability of adventure. But also at the same time, it's encouraging because it's a more intimate setting where you don't have to shout to be heard.
Most importantly: it's good to know that metal still reigns supreme at the Spring Inn. Near the end of the night, Metallica blasted out to us, which brought me back to my hard-drinking days of yore.
Last call came about. I guzzled one more Wild Turkey 101--because the Spring Inn is the only bar in the area that has WT101, the finest whiskey known to humanity--and we went out into the streets, where I hung out with my friend and his brother for a while longer, while they had one more cigarette. (Because my friend has been abroad, he was surprised to discover that you couldn't smoke in bars around here.) And then, I went home, where I stumbled up to bed.
I can't tell you how many nights I've stumbled up to bed after drinking at the Spring Inn. I haven't been there since the last time my friend was in town. I think. Actually, no. Another friend was passing through, and we went to the Spring Inn for a brief hang before heading out to Elgin for some serious boozing. But for a guy who used to go to the Spring Inn every week? Two times in two years is a terrible rate.
I think I shouldn't neglect my favorite bar anymore.
I've been icing my drinks since my pancreas problem. The bartender didn't know about my health issues, so when I asked for whiskey with ice in it, he looked at me kind of weird.
My reputation precedes me . . .
Monday, November 10, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #111: HOW DID THEY GET THERE?
Judging by the numbers, almost none of you read my Sunday posts. OK, that's not fair. A bit less than a quarter of you read the Sunday posts. Tonight's topic will probably not interest anyone, so I figured I'd throw it up on a Sunday. If you don't give a shit about GUNSMOKE, now's the time to bail.
(I'm only talking about the TV show here. The radio show was a different beast, an alternate reality. In that one, Chester's last name was Proudfoot. Doc was a drunk who fell from grace because he possibly performed back alley abortions. Marshal Dillon and Miss Kitty were definitely fucking, although it was uncertain if she was being paid for it. Never mind that. My thoughts regard the TV show, where Chester's last name was Goode, Doc only drinks every once in a while and probably doesn't know how to stir a fetus out of a woman and Matt Dillon and Kitty, while very good friends, were clearly not in a romantic/sexual relationship no matter how much people wished for it.)
There was never an origin story for GUNSMOKE. One day, America started tuning in to the adventures of Matt Dillon, US Marshal, and his friends in Dodge City around the 1870's. We know very little about the characters before they arrived in Dodge City. We know that Matt was an orphan who fell into criminal activity before he became a lawman. We know that Chester came from the Appalachians, like his replacement, Festus. We know that Miss Kitty was previously in Louisiana, probably New Orleans, before coming to Kansas. But we don't know anything beyond that. We don't even know how they met.
I had an odd moment on Friday as I was watching that night's episode. (I watch them on the 50th anniversary of the day they originally aired, so that night's episode had debuted on November 7, 1964.) There's just a way that the characters interact with each other that led me to think about how they came together in the first place.
I think Doc was the first to come to town, probably before the Civil War began. People trust him a lot, as if they've known him for a long time. He's got a solid reputation. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd set out his shingle before the Longbranch opened its doors.
I think Chester came next, maybe in 1870, but he never really hung out with Doc. They knew each other, but I don't think they were friends. And then Miss Kitty bought the saloon (or at least the majority interest she had when we first met her; years later, she would become the sole proprietor) that she would turn into the Longbranch. I think Doc drank there and performed services for Kitty's girls, and they formed a friendship because of this. When you see the two of them interact on the show, even in the early years, it's like they've known each other forever, even before Matt Dillon came to town.
Which is why I think Matt showed up last. I don't think he'd been marshal for very long before we first met him in the series premiere. I think his path crossed with Chester's, and the two of them fell in together. As a marshal, he had to rely on Doc, the only doctor in town. Through Doc, he met Kitty. Through Matt, Chester became close friends with the others. And so the original quartet was formed.
We know how Quint came to town. We know how Festus came to town. And, while I'm getting ahead of myself (seeing as how it's 1964 in the GUNSMOKE lobe of my brain), we know how Thad and Newly came to town. But not even the books from the past 20 years, which are considered canon, have explained how the original group met each other. (Although one of them tried to explain what happened to Chester after Festus showed up. It's thought that he became a farmer, although anyone who knows Chester knows that he has an aversion to physical labor, not to mention the fact that the one time he tried that on the show, he was a resounding failure at it. In my opinion, he met a girl and started a family elsewhere. He always was a ladies man.)
The one man who would know for sure, John Meston, who created first the radio show and then the TV show, has been dead for almost as long as I've been alive, so we'll never know.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #110: PENNIES
None of us ever think about the money we handle. For a society that is paranoid about catching Ebola, no one cares about the exchange of money in our country. At a fast food restaurant or a theater or anywhere, really, we're happy to hand over, say, a twenty and get our change back. But no one ever thinks about the change they give to us. You don't know who held that dollar before you did. The person in front of you at the drive-thru at McDonald's could be a cokehead, and the dollar you get back when you're at the window could have cocaine residue on it. (Unless it was the guy from THE WOLF OF WALL STREET, who doesn't believe in one-dollar bills for coke-sniffing.) Or it could have shit on it, which happens more often than not. It could have Ebola on it.
But no one cares. Why would you?
But never mind that. Some people don't think too often about change--as in, actual coins--because who gives a fuck? My friend, Josh, got rare coins whenever he worked the register at the gas station he used to work at. I have a few Nazi coins because of my stepfather's father. And then there's the scene from UHF about the rare Indian head penny that grants a homeless dude a fortune.
I recently got a 1920 wheat penny back from a transaction at McDonald's. Very few people would think about something like this. If you don't know what a wheat penny is, it's a penny so old that it doesn't have the Lincoln Memorial on the back. It just has ONE CENT back there with a couple of pieces of wheat surrounding it in almost a circle.
But who cares about a penny, right?
I would never call myself an antiquarian. I'm not nearly pretentious enough for something like that. However, I do appreciate old things. I'm interested in eras that have passed us by. Hell, I should be. I grew up in an era where nearly everything that was considered ordinary is now condemned as illegal or at least questionable.
The 1920 wheat penny is worth exactly one cent today. However it's psychically worth more. This penny was seven years old when my grandfather--my oldest living relative I can think of--was born, just to give you an idea. Who knows the hands it passed through, back in the day when one pound of bread was worth ten cents? World War I vets probably held this thing. People who suffered through the Great Depression maybe kept it in their pockets. People who were shamed by Prohibition probably paid bartenders in speakeasies this penny. Hell, it's possible that the last of the Civil War vets could have touched this thing.
Maybe--JUST MAYBE--my grandfather owned this penny when he was a kid, growing up in a household that prohibited speaking English at home. His family wanted to be Americans, and they knew the language, but at home, he would be punished if he spoke anything but Greek. Today? He remembers almost nothing of his parents' language. He recalls the curse words, but that's about it.
He was born in 1927. His wife--my grandmother--was born in 1930. Just to give you an idea.
It makes me wonder: will there come an era when there are new people walking the earth, and they'll be marveling over 2014 pennies that someone gave back to them at a McDonald's drive-thru? Will they be pleasantly surprised? "Dude, this could have been held by the Navy SEAL who shot bin Laden!" Or, less likely, "What if the guy who wrote TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE touched this penny?" Provided, of course, that they still have physical money in the future.
But no one cares. Why would you?
But never mind that. Some people don't think too often about change--as in, actual coins--because who gives a fuck? My friend, Josh, got rare coins whenever he worked the register at the gas station he used to work at. I have a few Nazi coins because of my stepfather's father. And then there's the scene from UHF about the rare Indian head penny that grants a homeless dude a fortune.
I recently got a 1920 wheat penny back from a transaction at McDonald's. Very few people would think about something like this. If you don't know what a wheat penny is, it's a penny so old that it doesn't have the Lincoln Memorial on the back. It just has ONE CENT back there with a couple of pieces of wheat surrounding it in almost a circle.
But who cares about a penny, right?
I would never call myself an antiquarian. I'm not nearly pretentious enough for something like that. However, I do appreciate old things. I'm interested in eras that have passed us by. Hell, I should be. I grew up in an era where nearly everything that was considered ordinary is now condemned as illegal or at least questionable.
The 1920 wheat penny is worth exactly one cent today. However it's psychically worth more. This penny was seven years old when my grandfather--my oldest living relative I can think of--was born, just to give you an idea. Who knows the hands it passed through, back in the day when one pound of bread was worth ten cents? World War I vets probably held this thing. People who suffered through the Great Depression maybe kept it in their pockets. People who were shamed by Prohibition probably paid bartenders in speakeasies this penny. Hell, it's possible that the last of the Civil War vets could have touched this thing.
Maybe--JUST MAYBE--my grandfather owned this penny when he was a kid, growing up in a household that prohibited speaking English at home. His family wanted to be Americans, and they knew the language, but at home, he would be punished if he spoke anything but Greek. Today? He remembers almost nothing of his parents' language. He recalls the curse words, but that's about it.
He was born in 1927. His wife--my grandmother--was born in 1930. Just to give you an idea.
It makes me wonder: will there come an era when there are new people walking the earth, and they'll be marveling over 2014 pennies that someone gave back to them at a McDonald's drive-thru? Will they be pleasantly surprised? "Dude, this could have been held by the Navy SEAL who shot bin Laden!" Or, less likely, "What if the guy who wrote TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE touched this penny?" Provided, of course, that they still have physical money in the future.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #109: FALLING OUT OF LOVE WITH FICTION
Sorry. That sounded a bit more dramatic than I meant it to sound. I mean to ask my fellow writers: have you ever written a story for a while, so that you have a great deal of work into it, and have suddenly fallen out of love with it? Maybe it takes a turn you didn't expect, and you no longer care for it? That has happened to me recently.
The way I work is, I work on a novel, and when I finish the first draft, I let it simmer for a while so I can work on short fiction. When I'm done with the short story ideas that have accumulated in my head, I go back to the novel and work on the second and third (which is usually the final) drafts.
Right now, I'm working on short stories, and the one I'm struggling through is really eroding my desire to write it. I think it's a great idea, but everything I try is doing its best to turn me away. I'm starting to think that even though I enjoy this idea, I want to quit and move on to something else. I believe in this short story, at least until the middle point of the narrative, but the ending doesn't want to help me out here. Does anyone have an idea as to what I should do? My initial thought is to just move on, but I think I have something here.
It's so aggravating. I don't normally write fantasy stories, and this one is a sword and sorcery tale. It's resisting me, so I wonder if I should save it for another day.
Thoughts?
The way I work is, I work on a novel, and when I finish the first draft, I let it simmer for a while so I can work on short fiction. When I'm done with the short story ideas that have accumulated in my head, I go back to the novel and work on the second and third (which is usually the final) drafts.
Right now, I'm working on short stories, and the one I'm struggling through is really eroding my desire to write it. I think it's a great idea, but everything I try is doing its best to turn me away. I'm starting to think that even though I enjoy this idea, I want to quit and move on to something else. I believe in this short story, at least until the middle point of the narrative, but the ending doesn't want to help me out here. Does anyone have an idea as to what I should do? My initial thought is to just move on, but I think I have something here.
It's so aggravating. I don't normally write fantasy stories, and this one is a sword and sorcery tale. It's resisting me, so I wonder if I should save it for another day.
Thoughts?
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