Well now I’ve gone and done it; contrary to a post just the other day about working pieces to death or shelving them because whatever is your latest writing is usually the best, I sent off a submission. The most recent, to be sure, but one that like the rose plucked from its garden, rots and stinks just as the dandelion with time gone by.
Interesting posting at The Great Lettuce Head re my own puzzlement about narrative lengths and story in itself. Reflects both my efforts to date and efforts toward the future of discovery in literary progress; in examining all the little nuances, every little nook and cranny of what makes a good story.
Then I go and blow it all by sending something off that’s barely settled on its pages.
May I claim the lovely feminine quality of changing my mind, or am I just an idiot?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology