The best thing about having completed and shipped a novel some place, in my semi-humble opinion, is that it takes away the nagging desire to tinker and clears the way for other work. But the beast is off my desk now, and suddenly two days later I find myself nearing the end of a short story I’ve had bouncing around in my head for a couple weeks.
I had jotted a few notes here and there, and even had a paragraph or two of pseudo-code prose to capture a flavor of a thought, but the real work has really just poured through over the past two days. I figure tomorrow probably sees the end of the first draft, anyway, bloated as it will likely be.
We’ll see, though.
The second draft is generally more fun anyway.
I find that bigger projects are like this for me. When I ‘m writing a novel I get all my energy tied up in it, and I really struggle to go work on anything else. Short work I can multi-task between. But novels are beasts that sit on my shoulder and whisper at me during all times of the day. Novels get jealous, I guess. Short Stories are just happy to be here.
And that is the sum total of my wisdom for the morning. Off to work.