As always, after I take part in a contest or submit a piece for feedback, I fall in a mild depression that makes me wonder why I keep trying to write.
I have a job. A good job. I have my own business. I am part owner of another business. I have a husband that loves me. And a dog that I can love and spend stupid amounts of time entertaining. I train in Aikido. I volunteer for local non-profits. Heck, I even read every now and then.
So why spend what precious little free time I have in writing fictional stories that I can’t even get my husband to read? He who is supposed to love me and support me in all aspects of my life can’t muster the energy to read my stories. Jerk. (Joking! He really does try, he just can’t stand my stories. 😦 ).
Anyway, this afternoon I re-read all the comments, opinions, corrections, insults and other criticism I have received in the past year and half since I started on this difficult journey.
There’s a theme.
At first, I thought maybe it’s a conspiracy. I mean, there’s lots of those around, right? Why not one revolving around me?
Here’s the thing: everyone (yes, I mean everyone) has said at one point or another that my stories should be expanded into novel length or that they are great starts to a novel.
WTF? I’m not trying to write novels. Really. I’m not. But there they are. Is there just a thing as a “Novelist”? Meaning, someone who just can’t write anything but a novel?
May the imaginary gods help me if so, ’cause I got a world of novels in me.