Ragged Feathers

So the very minute I start worrying about getting close (like, six to eight months away from) to finishing contracted work, the sky opens up and bombards me with new opportunities. Chance favors the prepared, of course, but I can’t help but feel gratified. That’s a few new short stories and more, longer stuff coming down the pike. Nice to keep my hand in with shorts.

Heh.

Actually, short stories are far more difficult for me than novels. Novel-length stuff takes longer concentration and daily slogging, but the shorts have to leave so much out. Every word tells in a short story, and for someone who likes to take their time setting up a situation before poking the first domino to make it fall…there’s not a lot of time for long-term gratification in short stories. They’re tiny and intricate and I always have to fight the urge to make them longer.

It’s good practice, though. And every time I get new work I feel relieved. There’s a bunch of truth to the Sally Field reaction when it comes to creatives, or at least to me. I am constantly trying to hit my mark and make it so I’ll be invited back to play by editors and publishers–not to mention the most important part of the equation, the Readers.

So, we have stories in revision:

* Say Yes, which I also have an alternate version of that is actually a nice tight little story in its own right, subtitled Ambition.
* The Heart Is Always Right, the gargoyle story that is resting with the editors now.

And we have stuff to do:

* There’s the Dark And Stormy Knight story, which begins with the phrase It was the barmaid’s fault. Really, with an opening like that, who could resist?
* A yet-unsold[1]-but-close-to-finalised story for an anthology with the theme The Girl’s Guide To Guns And Monsters, which will start out with something like They were dead when I came home at dawn. (Yes, I often get the first hook of a story before I get anything else. My Muse is weird like that.)
* Another yet-unsold-but-even-if-it-doesn’t-fly-I’m-going-to-write-it-anyway story, tentatively about chicks kicking ass. This one I have a fuzzy idea of rival werewolf cheerleaders for, or another trip down noir lane with a very old story I still love called The Last Job, but I’m sure it will end up being totally different than anything I say now.

Added to that there’s other stuff shaking with the longer works that I can’t talk about yet. But very exciting. Right at the moment I’m feeling really awesomely lucky. And very, very relieved that I have a chance of getting more work. I mean, my kids gotta eat.

I realize a lot of writers don’t look at it that way, and I realize that my view of writing as the thing I was meant and made to do AND the thing that’s got to feed and clothe my kids might be an outlier in “the writing world”. I’ve caught a lot of flak for my focus being on the things you have to do to be a professional making a living, not a hobbyist or a “spare time” writer. It doesn’t precisely bother me–opinions, including my own, are a dime a dozen, and if people don’t like mine they’re free to find a million others in the wide world they might like more. Still, it’s amazing.

I’m thinking about this issue a lot because of my March event at Cover to Cover–it’s going to be “Stump the Working Writer”, where I field questions from the audience about how to make/how I make a living at this sort of thing. On the one hand, I consider that I’ve been very lucky in my professional path. On the other hand, that luck was and is underpinned by a lot of consistent hard work, 8-10 hours a day six to seven days a week in most cases. I do take time off, but even when I’m “on vacay” the brain is constantly noodling at the works in progress and new things. Any vacation I take is a working vacation. Because, you know, I think I’m wired for this thing. It’s a reflex, I can’t help it.

I’m also thinking of my Friday writing post tomorrow, which I think is going to be about wordcount. Big fun and joy fo everyone.

ANYWAY. I’m happy and relieved to get some new work in. I was getting nervous, looking at finishing up my contracted work in the next six to eight months and having no more coming down the lane. Yes, I realize that’s six months in the future, but given the pace at which publishing moves, you have to start planning now for stuff to happen two or three years from now. And with the economy the way it is, I won’t deny feeling a little apprehension.

But it’s better now. *tongue in cheek* I’ll have to find something else to worry about. Heaven knows I always do.

So off I go to beat some short stories into submission. (Ha ha. Pun. See what I did there? Oh, God, I’m a dork.) It’s the best work in the world, for me.

Here’s to hoping I can go on a little longer doing it.

[1] Which means no details, don’t count chickens until they’re hatched, subject to change, and a lot of other disclaimers. You get the idea.

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