Homesick for fiction.

Having finished the draft of Indigo & Ink, which has occupied the last seven months of my life, I’m now feeling a bit down in the dumps. You know, I really miss writing the book. After that last edit, I had a sense of finality, and while it was very thrilling, in some ways it also left me feeling a bit empty. This probably explains why when my friend Karen mentioned she’d read some of the first chapter, I about fell out of my chair in excitement.

Yes, writers are weird. If you hadn’t figured that out yet, you just haven’t met enough of us.

Anyway, I haven’t stopped writing, but nothing’s had that zing since finishing Indigo & Ink. Though I did hit a milestone. I wrote a short story in a respectably short amount of time without freaking out and hating it–and then I actually submitted it. I’ve been writing about 1.5 short stories a year lately, which is pretty pathetic in all honesty. And I can whine all I want about it simply not being my medium, but in actuality I think short stories are a hell of a lot harder to do well than novels. For me, anyway. To develop a character in under 6,000 words terrifies me. Which probably explains why I wrote The God Who Played, aforementioned short story, in first person.

Regardless, I have some thinking to do about what to write and when to write and how to write and all. I have surgery coming up next month, and Dragon*Con before that, so tossing myself headfirst into a novel is probably not the brightest ideas.

But then again, when have I ever been one to listen to reason? 😉