BitterSweetLife

This is one of those "thinking out loud" posts that aspiring authors occasionally indulge in. About two months ago, a unique fiction contest kick-started the creative process that eventually resulted in my first complete short story. My story began like this:

Ken and April had heard the rumors. His relatives were always making allusions, vague as they were dark, about his parents, The Builder, and The House. Just jealous old people, Ken would shrug. The estate snapshots were what stopped him short, captivated him. When he surveyed the house, unseen since infancy, he couldn’t help himself. This is the place they say is tainted? Haunted by grandeur, maybe. And then the deeds of property had been unearthed.

A couple weeks ago I received the crushing news that the short story (submitted to the WORLDview Fiction Contest) hadn't made the finalists list. Some might argue that "top ten" out of 1,000 entries is a lofty goal, but nevertheless, there it was: I'd thought I had it in me, but "it" was sadly lacking.

Some of you may recall the painful soul-searching that followed, briefly alluded to here. "To write or not to write?" that was the question. Fortunately, I emerged from the experience humbled but determined. The quest for authorship would continue.

And so it has. To my surprise, I’ve discovered that it’s easier the second time around. Maybe the new genre helped, but my second short story was completed with considerably less agony, desperation and sleep loss. The story begins like this:

For me there are no “good old days.” I don’t look over my shoulder much as a rule. Once you’ve stared a troll or harpy in the eye—much less a dragon—memories are like old debts, best forgotten. But my tongue outruns me. There is something you should know about dragons.

One thing I’m debating is how to measure my growth as a writer. Thankfully there’s the empirical approach—how do my pieces fare in contests? But more difficult to gauge is one’s integral growth as a storyteller. Have I acquired a voice, a capability for story, that I didn’t possess two months, two weeks, a day ago?

One hopes, and, in the meantime, keeps typing.

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