Such a prickly thing, choice
I sent the story off. Not to the contest, but to the readers I remembered who agreed to look at it for me. I wasn't in any particular hurry, but I did find myself in a frenzy over tiny, logistical details. Thrice I looked the story over to smooth its roughest edges, and thrice I ended up adding or changing or adding and changing. The story was already over 5000 words, which isn't a lot for a stand-alone short, but with all my manic meddling, it ballooned to 6000. I knew I had a problem.
So, with the first step of acceptance, I pushed it through the electronic womb at friendly bystanders, hoping they wouldn't be mowed down. After the first draft, I knew it was bad. After the second, I thought it was alright. After the third, I was convinced somewhat of both. I will have to submit it by the end of the month, and I refuse to do it without looking it over twice more after I get some degree of feedback. I cannot help but think that I will be sending off a woefully imperfect product in a week and change.
The sci-fi novel isn't on the back burner, but I do have to take some time to decide if I am going to earnestly pursue a traditional MFA program for next fall. This blog post deflated my confidence greatly. One of the places I submitted to had an author on staff with a Hugo, which is a science fiction literature award. Admittedly, there aren't many of those floating around academia, but they do exist. It never occurred to me that it would be that grade of uphill climb. So, in regards to considering grad school again, I have to make some decisions about what I will write, and what kind of writer I will present myself as when I apply.
Which seems a bit tragic to me. After all, I hide myself as it is. Among other writers was the dream haven I am considering spending thousands of dollars to access. Why should I have to be someone else there? It isn't that I want to only write speculatively, but I do speculate. So, if a submission is to be sent, then it must be a contemporary one. It isn't that the novel isn't in me to write. I believe this is what people say that this is "the principle of the thing."
So we'll see. As the temperature drops, and on comes falls, on fall the dominoes in a line. Crooked and bent and jagged and terrible.
So, with the first step of acceptance, I pushed it through the electronic womb at friendly bystanders, hoping they wouldn't be mowed down. After the first draft, I knew it was bad. After the second, I thought it was alright. After the third, I was convinced somewhat of both. I will have to submit it by the end of the month, and I refuse to do it without looking it over twice more after I get some degree of feedback. I cannot help but think that I will be sending off a woefully imperfect product in a week and change.
The sci-fi novel isn't on the back burner, but I do have to take some time to decide if I am going to earnestly pursue a traditional MFA program for next fall. This blog post deflated my confidence greatly. One of the places I submitted to had an author on staff with a Hugo, which is a science fiction literature award. Admittedly, there aren't many of those floating around academia, but they do exist. It never occurred to me that it would be that grade of uphill climb. So, in regards to considering grad school again, I have to make some decisions about what I will write, and what kind of writer I will present myself as when I apply.
Which seems a bit tragic to me. After all, I hide myself as it is. Among other writers was the dream haven I am considering spending thousands of dollars to access. Why should I have to be someone else there? It isn't that I want to only write speculatively, but I do speculate. So, if a submission is to be sent, then it must be a contemporary one. It isn't that the novel isn't in me to write. I believe this is what people say that this is "the principle of the thing."
So we'll see. As the temperature drops, and on comes falls, on fall the dominoes in a line. Crooked and bent and jagged and terrible.
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