One Life in Short Sketches

No moving things were accomplished yesterday–well, almost none.  I should have my internet up and waiting for me when I get into the new digs next week.  I’m going to be on the eleventh floor of a complex, and I’ll have a studio with a balcony looking out over a river.  I’m going to have to come up with a cool name for the place, something better than the Hole Away From Home, like the last dump was dubbed.  Yeah.  Good times.

Yesterday I edited and I wrote.  The editing was planed, the writing wasn’t.  I didn’t think about getting into my story until it was close to nine PM here, and then I thought, “What the hell?”, put on some Queen, and went at the story.  An hour and fifteen minutes later I was thirteen hundred words closer to the end of the story, and more confident I was that I’d end up doing one more scene and calling it fins on the story.

This means another thousand to, at most, fifteen hundred words, and The Relocator is in the bag.  By any math that one employees, this would put my final word count at fifty-five hundred to six thousand words, and that’s less than seven thousand five hundred words, and that’s a real short story.  The shortest I’ve ever written, because up until now, if I eliminate the crap that I first wrote many, many years before, the shortest stories I’ve written to this point are between eight and ten thousand words.

As Brother James might say, I jump back, I kiss myself.  Muaaah!

I know how I did this, crazy dream feelings not withstanding.  I got the idea, I saw the story as a series of scenes, and I started stringing them together in my head.  I even knew the ending:  that is, before I decided that I didn’t need that extra scene and did away with it, and focused on the new ending that was the original end of Scene Five.  Which is to say, I worked it all out in my head, and edited there as well, before I started writing.

I knew the story, I knew what I wanted to say.

But . . . what did I say?

I know I drew on some inspiration here, the kind that isn’t obvious until you start getting the words down, and then–bam!  You’re hit with the realization of what well you’ve dipped into for your material.  It’s easy for me to know these things, because I seem more focused of late, and that’s helping considerably with knowing what I want to do these days.

Maybe I’m finally finding some peace in my life, because I’ve finally grown comfortable with what I’m doing, and what’s happening around me.

Does this mean I’m going to write these crazy erotic fantasies that are rolling about in my head?  Well . . . Maybe I should.  Or maybe I should get back into the business of getting my next NaNo masterpiece ready.  Or maybe I should get a last polish on Couples Dance, like I said I was going to do, and get that sucker published next month.

So many things to do, so little time to do it.

I need to live until ninety, I really do.