A form rejection this morning reminded me how few stories I’ve submitted this year.
And the big fat zero number of publications.
I’m still crawling along with the novel and writing more words than is humanly reasonable for Writers’ HQ, so the subs will just have to wait. That said, I DID unearth a draft of a poem about Vagina Dentata and started a flash about hugs the other day, so perhaps not all hope is lost for this year.
I’m also pretty happy with the stories I sent out into the world last year. It was a good year.
I won the Bath Flash Fiction Award and attempted to read it aloud at the awards ceremony having completely lost my voice. I wrote a bit about the writing of it here, and the guys at Book. Record. Beer. compared me to Hemingway, so - y’know, that’s pretty cool.
And another, The Back of Your Hand was longlisted for the Reflex Fiction flash fiction competition.
Excellent person Paul Macauley sat me in his kitchen and talked about creativity, determination, and all the wafty bollocks about calling yourself a ‘writer’ for his podcast: Creative Loving Spirit.
That’s plenty, I think. There were also seventeen rejections, a continuously unfinished novel, and an ever-expanding business that never ceases to blow my mind with the sheer possibility that comes from saying “yeah, fuck it, let’s just do it”, the best fucking writing community on the planet, and the most incredible band of humans i could ever hope to work with.
Most of my energy is there right now. But there will more words. In time. I will finish this book. I will write about vaginas with teeth. And hugs. And maybe there will be a list for 2019.