I spent a substantial part of the morning yesterday revising and polishing the beginning of a short story I began to write a few days ago. I’ve not written much; so far, I’ve only reached 950 words and my guess is that it will multiply many-fold before it’s suitable for viewing outside my line of vision.
For a variety of reasons, I am more pleased with what I’ve written thus far than with anything I have written in quite some time. I don’t know that anyone else will think much of it, but I do. When I finish it, I may submit it…somewhere…for consideration for publication. I don’t know where, I don’t even remember how anymore. But I will dust off what little I recall about writing for publication, then update my knowledge, then send it off to have someone pass judgment on it. Consequently, I won’t post it here as I am wont to do with damn near everything I write (or at least parts of what I write).
What made me think it’s better than my usual drivel? As I was reading what little I’ve written of this short piece of fiction (it’s a short, short story), I felt myself reacting emotionally to the piece. So, I figure either I’m getting to a point I haven’t reached before in my writing or I’ve written something that triggers a cheesy, predictable daytime soap response in my brain.
I have to be flip about this; otherwise, things could get ugly.