All day, every day for weeks now: I like it…it sucks…I like it…it sucks.
In preparation for the cycle, like calculating the rhythm of the ropes before jumping into Double-Dutch, I’ve worked on a cover letter, tweaked and retweaked story, and set up envelopes.
In the rush submission for the PBW project, I filled out "Literary Fiction" in the genre blank. Then finding it among fifty other submissions of fantasy, romance, sci fi, paranormal, horror, I wondered when I’d grown the balls to be so elitist and egocentrical to call my work a piece of "literary fiction." Particularly that story, Cooper’s Promise, which was an early piece that I’d meant to bring up to the writing level at which I’m now working, was not at all a literary schmiterary piece to begin with I don’t think, and a few days’ intense work is still not a magic wand.
I feel like such a phony, and am embarrassed by the impulsiveness that drove me to such bold folly.
But with Gazpacho, I feel more comfortable. I’m more in the place I want to be. I think–at least right this very moment–that it’s ready.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology