I have this sneaking, sinking, horrible feeling that I’ve started writing a novel. I had absolutely no intention of doing so, but the thought has been turning over in my mind for a few days now.
And it’s not Delaney… she is going to kill me.
I’m not sure. I always planned for this second block of stories to be tied together by location, and they are. Same city, same created world, people who are connected in different ways (wife for the first story, husband for the second). And yet here I am, a few hundred words into the second chapter story of the book block, feeling strangely like I am writing a novel. Strangely like I could just keep writing a chapter a week and eventually, I’d get to the end and everything would tie in together. I have my next story shaping up, with a third character in mind, but it still ties into the same storyline.
I’d love to tell myself that I am not writing a novel, but for some reason, I can’t shake the feeling that I am.
And I have no idea how that happened.
Short stories damn-it, that’s what I was writing. Trying to write. What is with this novel business?
I’m not really sure what to do about it, other than keep writing. I’m committed to this block, and I have a feeling that the words are going to keep coming easily which is exactly what I need right now. I’m just…I guess I’m a little disappointed/surprised by myself and my brain. I don’t know what it’s thinking right now. Novels? Right before I’m due to have a baby? Novels about zombies, and city-states, torture, escape and the cost of choices. Of babies conceived when it shouldn’t have been a possibility. Of unknown outcomes and really, I have no idea where this is all going. None.
Ah well. Like other things in life right now I am conceding. I’ve thrown my hands up in defeat. This is what I’m writing for the next few weeks anyways, and if it turns into a novel then so be it.
I’m writing flash fiction for the third block. Whatever happens in the weeks between now and then.