The Pink House, William Degouve de Nuncques
After much rumination and aggravation, last Thursday I finally let go of that awful job that exhausted me no end. I’ve never felt so free. Now I’m at home, trying not to worry about money, and I’m writing–at last. (Insert great sigh of relief!). I can spend hours at my desk instead of a palmful of time here and there. I’ve got so many stories clamoring for attention.
Yesterday was wonderfully productive. I worked on Dust, a short horror story that has reached 7,371 words–so maybe not so short. Last night, lying awake staring into the dark, I found the end. Don’t know how many words it’ll take, but I love it! Today I’ll write it.
Yesterday I sent off Shadow, a short horror story (this one really is short–1,382 words) to The Horror Zine, and found a new market for my other short horror story, A Terrible Thing, which may end up being retitled before it wings away.
This morning’s dawn resembled an abstract painting, smudges of dark cloud in a sunless sweep of sky, the first breath of day fresh and cool. I’m already behind in getting started on Dust. I really want to finish it today. Enough with the rabbit trails of distraction!