Monday, February 18, 2013

flown babies

It's hard. I wrote a story last month that is kind of staying with me. It's a viking one, and while I was writing it, people kept posting beautiful viking, northern images on tumblr. I saw the forest I was thinking about after I'd written the story, the weapons, the blond, bearded men, the naked swimming children... so many lovely images that were just what I needed to put me in the right zone.

I wanted to the story to be deeply evocative and atmospheric and I've no idea whether I achieved that or not. The story is subbed, but I won't hear a yay or nay til June, and if it does get in then it will be what, a year before the book hits the shelves?

I feel a bit of separation anxiety... I didn't discuss it with anyone while I was writing, didn't get anyone to be a reader, which I should've, of course. I just didn't manage to get it done in time. I'd love to talk to someone about my story, but I can't. My attempts to have people read it have somehow not gone anywhere. I don't know why I want to so much, there's always the fear that it's crap, and people will feel embarrassed and not want to tell me. Still... I miss it. I need to live there a little bit longer, I lived with it in my head for quite some time while it grew and formed, and it's not ready to go yet.

Sometimes it takes such a long time for the anthos I am in to see the light of day that I've almost forgotten about them by the time the story does come out - and while it's lovely to read my own words in print, with fresh eyes, it still doesn't guarantee any feedback. It's a weird little world, writing. Especially when you do it as infrequently as I do.