Finishing

I haven’t finished a short story in years. It’s a thing I’ll bust out in conversations about writing, even though the evidence of its untruth is out there. I have written stories. Some were published. Many were not. This is probably for the best, since they were mostly fiction written in the grip of the apnea fugue, and it’s hard to really understand what I intended beyond insert words on blank page so I can tick the writing box and pretend nothing is wrong.

This is not a good way to write. Especially when you realise there’s a problem, get it treated, and discover that checking the box doesn’t actually mean much.

And so, in my head, I stopped writing short fiction, despite the evidence to the contrary. When I did write it, I failed to finish it. The things I finished, by and large, were because people asked me to write things and the terror of letting said people down hurt more than struggling through the fugue.

And those stories? They rarely felt like they were mine.

The last time I actually felt like a short-story writer was 2013.

I am not disappointed in the things I’ve written since then, but I do kinda miss the regular hit of finishing things and sending them out. Getting stories out there, into the world, that I remember writing and feel a sense of connection too.

I am thinking about this a lot today.

You know, while sitting here at the computer. Trying to remember how the short story thing goes, so I can finish this particular draft.