yep.  November is here again, and that can only mean one thing.

ah, NaNoWriMo, you’re a strange beast. on the one hand,  you have given me hours of slog, agony and more slog,  and despair.  oh, and let’s not forget the slog.  on the other hand, you have given me creativity and friends and joy.  also, five novel-length spewings of words, with varying degrees of wanting to tear my eyes out over how awful they are, interspersed with the odd chuckle at my own cleverness or comedy genius (usually slapstick, if i’m honest…).  two or three were vaguely readable.  one was a tiny bit more than vaguely readable (but i can still no longer bear to read it), and a couple were unmitigated shite.  and last year was really. fucking. hard. work.  so much of the joy of creativity was missing from the process (and the end was so similar to another that i wrote two or three years ago), that i was beginning to wonder if there was any point to continuing.

therefore, i decided that this year i would shake it up a bit.

i refuse to write any more shitty novels.  it’s soul destroying and, at the moment, i don’t think that i will ever have a novel length story to tell ever, ever again. to be honest, i’m still not entirely convinced I ever did.  but…

but…

that doesn’t mean there are no more short stories in me.  oh no.  i suspect there may still be several of those wee buggers scuttling around in there.  i’ve been collecting story starts and whisps of inspiration since May, when i first had this idea.  are there 50,000 words’ worth of short stories in there? 

dunno.

ask me on the 30th of November.

i’m going on a story hunt…

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