Sometimes You Just Know

I've developed this nasty habit of over-thinking things. Now I say that like it's some recent thing, but in truth I've been that way my whole life. I didn't do a lot of the stupid shit most kids my age have because of it (though instead I went through my own brand of stupid shit). It paralyzed me when it came time to choose a college degree, and kept me in it even after I realized I was wasting my time. I missed a couple steps and entirely avoided some leaps I should have taken. Now how the fuck does that relate to writing?

Last week I was in Toronto, and I finally took a crack at a concept I had for a story. Don't worry, I'd gotten a serious amount of editing done just the night before. Honestly, I should have done both that day, but I was away for the weekend so whatever. Now this concept had been bouncing around my skull since I saw a submission call for cosmic horror. I'd never tried my hand at the genre and I'd wanted to do so since I finished reading a small collection of Lovecraft stories I'd bought at Chapters for $5. The basic concept is this; man goes on solo mission to Pluto, promptly goes crazy. Not the most creative premise, but it had its hooks in me. So I ran with it for a couple of hours. I was so excited by all the possibilities, all the science I'd researched, and the character I created. I rode that wave of inspiration for a bit North of 2000 words. "That was a good chunk of writing," I thought to myself, "I'm sure this will lead somewhere great." Only it didn't. I looked over what I'd written and I knew it was no good. I'd written four pages of pure exposition. It was boring as shit and I'd come up with it. I couldn't imagine how dull it'd be for an actual reader. "Oh well, it's a first draft," I continued, "I'll fix it on the second go." I left it at that. I knew it was bad. Not like a "I'm a terrible writer and everything I write is terrible" kind of bad. This was pure, unadulterated, periodic table level crap. Absolute certainty doesn't come often when it comes to me and my writing, but this time it had.

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Writing a 12,000 Word Story in Two Weeks

I know, I'm bad at this whole schedule thing. Thank you to everyone who keeps reading despite my lack of consistency. I'm working on it.

Ok, so it was actually 11,574 words. Still, it was the longest thing I've ever written. Without giving the whole plot away (since I am trying to get this thing published), here's the synopsis I sent to the publisher:

It's not easy being Rick. He was a high school football star and now he works in a warehouse stacking boxes all day. He lets in a mafia boss, Marco De Luca, during the night so he can meet with his associates privately. Rick likes De Luca. Rick would like to keep working for De Luca so he can leave his lame job. Of course, things get more complicated when the lights go out and people start dying. Now Rick's gotta help his boss, no matter what he hears in the dark. He might need a little help first.

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