Last night I wrote a little story from a pile of notes I’d
accumulated over a couple of weeks. It took about two hours, which is actually
pretty slow, considering that it’s 949 words long. The weird thing is, I feel guilty
for liking the little thing.
Oh, it’s not perfect. I have to fix the bit in the middle
where I omitted to say what was going on, and there’s a lot of stuff at the top
that could be trimmed down because while it sets the tone, it doesn’t
necessarily progress the story or draw people in. I started copying and pasting
the frame so I have to update that now. And I rewrote the ending on scrap paper
in bed at 2am so I could fall asleep.
Also, the structure has a conceit that might make the story
only entertaining to me. I wonder if that’s why I like it – because I suspect I’m
the only one that will get the joke.
UPDATED 22/10/2012:
Until I read the thing. And then I hate it like everything else. My voice annoys me.
UPDATED 22/10/2012:
Until I read the thing. And then I hate it like everything else. My voice annoys me.