I admit to being frustrated with how long it takes to be a published writer. And I haven’t even submitted anything yet.
I wish it would all just pour out of my head so I can get on with reading my stories in “Greatest Shit Ever” magazine, and “Greatest Shit Ever II, Even Better Shit than the last Time” magazine. But like all you amateurs out there (don’t take offense, I include myself in this category), what sounds great in my head seems to stumble and stutter by the time it makes the page.
I’m working on two short stories right now, and have a third heaping pile masterpiece in my head. One is a sort of Lovecraft pastiche, which for all I know is the most hackneyed subject matter ever. It was fun for a bit, but now I just wonder if I’m not butchering all my nouns with various Lovecraftian adjectives. The second short I started writing longhand on a plane, and it was gargantuan, tremendous (Lovecraftian enough?) fun. And then I reread what I’d written and it seemed to wander all over the map in subject and in voice and in language and in just every important way imaginable.
Crap, crap, crap.
The third story, the one sitting unspoiled in my brain, is a fable of sorts, I think. I see it being told, at any rate. A fairty tale/life lesson. Don’t do drugs, that sort of thing…
I’m kidding. No one will tell anyone else to not do drugs. Or to do drugs. I’m not sure drugs will factor in at all, really.
Crap, crap, crap.
It’s late, and this is probably the sort of blog entry you get when blogging late. Next week I pick up Moneymaker and start hacking at it, trying to make something publishable. In the end I think it’s still there, inside a big block of marble, and I have to chisel it out.
Back to working on that “direct-from-brain-to-page story producer.” I think Stephen King wrote about such a thing, and it involved aliens. Kang and/or Kodos, why have you forsaken me?