The good news is I can put it back up on here for everyone else to enjoy should they wish 🙂
I sometimes think I miss writing short stories. They are such a wonderful little breed. I love their snapshot-nature and love how powerful it can be.
Don’t get me wrong, I love writing my novels. Novels are like a huge four-poster bed with piled-up pillows and a thick duvet on a winter evening: something you dive into, wrap yourself in and feel on ever inch of your skin, breath in the smell and cover yourself and fill yourself with.
Short stories are like an empty chair at a busy railway station, something you grab as soon as you see and revel in the moment it gives you away from everything else. It’s gone almost as quick as it came but for the time you were in it, you were in a different place.
I do wonder where my ideas come from for some of the short fiction I’ve done. I wonder if I will ever come up with similar things again since recently it’s been sprawling, epic affairs with tangled character development, world-wide politics and slow-building tension and action. I wonder if I came back to short fiction whether I could produce a snapshot again in the same way.
But then all I have to do is let my mind wander. It dithers off somewhere else, contemplates ideas and then starts asking questions, and I know that my fiction, long and short, has never been something I have written for the sake of it. I have written it because I love it and I need it. It comes from inside me and there is no feeling I have yet to experience that compares to having a finished piece of work you are proud of.
Even if no one else ever reads it, even if people do and don’t like it, the process is enough for me and there’s nothing else quite like it.