November 9th, 2015

In which I compare my writing to an uncooperative cow

I am sitting down to write about real life, because fiction is not cooperating.

How not good has fiction been?

Picture Fiction as a big angry cow with her horns stuck in a fence, and one dirty tail to hit with, and one free foot to kick you with. Fiction is is a man who shouts that he does not need directions while driving in the wrong direction. Fiction is chipping the ice off of a hunk of frozen chicken because small angry children need to eat, and you had no time to pull it out of the freezer before. Fiction is pantyhose on, a flat tire in the driveway, and no money in the bank.

Fiction is me, starting paragraphs, and deleting them. Fiction is me worrying that maybe the stories are gone, and the lake is dry. Maybe it is all the hype from NANO. I am not doing NANO. I never have. I am no good in the sprint. But all these people are getting so much done. And they are so happy. I hope some things will get posted on LJ-- I miss the fiction being here.

I have gotten other things done. I managed to fix the whole 'Nonerable' disaster. Our pay is back where it should be.

I signed up for the Perfect Duet Christmas fiction exchange. So I have a little deadline there-- but plenty of time. That one always seems to gel at the last minute. Maybe because I only look at it indirectly, that edge-of-the-eye looking that sometimes allows you to see what you otherwise would not. Not sure why I cannot seem to apply that more broadly.

Well. That was more whiny than I intended. Thank you all for listening.