I’ve been trying to commit to a self-imposed standard of productivity lately. Since last week I’ve hammered out two full short stories and finished a third that I’ve been agonizing over since July. The effort left me with the emotional equivalent of the exhaustion you feel following a workout that doesn’t kill you but still leaves you shaky.
I’ve been looking over my completed short stories lately. At present I have close to a thousand pages of material, a volume which impressed me, considering the hair-pulling doubt that goes into each one. Could I have possibly survived that much stress? Maybe smoking really is as good for you as “Thank You for Smoking” sarcastically made it out to be…
My roommate wants to put about two hundred of so pages worth of it into a self-published book. I’ve been shitty and have been putting it off, due mostly to whiny bouts of self-doubt, and some peculiar possessiveness over what I consider to be my soul in typeface. Anyway, I suppose by agreeing I do owe it to her to finish revising the stories I’ve decided were good enough to share.
To that end, I’ve started a separate blog, a project called “Placid Madness” which I will link to soon. Placid Madness will feature samples of the selected stories, or occasionally whole works altogether, in an effort to build some kind of literary resume. I have my doubts as to how effective it could be, but I’m plunging ahead with it anyway. Once it’s up and running, hopefully by the end of this week, I’ll try to add onto it regularly. Links to come, provided I’m not too much of a lazy fuck.
Hopefully I’ll remember to post a story here tomorrow. I’ll leave it up for about twenty-four hours, so read it while you can. Remember, no copy-pasting unless you don’t think you’ll be able to read or finish it before I take it down. Share with friends if you want, but please observe applicable copyright. Link to your heart’s content, but credit me where it’s due. All original fiction posted here is my personal intellectual property.
Anyway, I’m off. I’ve got letters to type out, inquiries to make on apartments, and a a few complaintive phone calls to make. So, you know, an average life to sort out, is how I guess I could have put that.
– The Awful Writer