Where the singing starts: hell on earth
Nov. 27th, 2006 01:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pjthompsonWritingness of the day: I got an old, old story, "Where the Singing Starts" ready to send out to FSF today. It's absolutely not right for that market, but it's still a virgin, and as a personal benchmark I wanted it to have its maiden race before the end of the year. So it'll go out for a nice, safe "didn't grab" and I don't have to think about it again for awhile.
Yes, I know I'm weird.
There's still something wrong with it. It's not YA, precisely, because the people in the story are 7, 9, and 11 respectively, but it's as close to writing YA as I'm ever likely to get. (My definition of YA being about teens comes from the marketing guidelines of magazines I considered sending this story to.) I've rewritten it several times over several years and it's in decent fighting shape, but it may be one of those stories that's best left in the trunk. I have so few short stories at my disposal that I hate to see even this moth-eaten piece permanently trunked. Since I wanted to get another story out there, since everything I have that I'd consider remotely marketable is already out there, since this one has never gotten its feet wet—off with its head! Uh, I mean, out it goes.
Sometimes—and here's the perversity that is moi—sending a story out and having it rejected sort of, I dunno, jump starts my perspective. Maybe I'll be able to see this one more clearly once it's been blooded.
My cat's version of hell on earth: All the windows are closed because it's cold so she can't look out and feel the wind in her hair. In addition, Mom's singing along to all the iTunes. There's no way out!
She keeps walking back and forth in front of the speakers and keyboard and meowing. Poor poobie. She'll probably be glad when I go back to work tomorrow. She finally settled down, but I note it was when I got distracted enough not to sing along anymore.
Yes, I know I'm weird.
There's still something wrong with it. It's not YA, precisely, because the people in the story are 7, 9, and 11 respectively, but it's as close to writing YA as I'm ever likely to get. (My definition of YA being about teens comes from the marketing guidelines of magazines I considered sending this story to.) I've rewritten it several times over several years and it's in decent fighting shape, but it may be one of those stories that's best left in the trunk. I have so few short stories at my disposal that I hate to see even this moth-eaten piece permanently trunked. Since I wanted to get another story out there, since everything I have that I'd consider remotely marketable is already out there, since this one has never gotten its feet wet—off with its head! Uh, I mean, out it goes.
Sometimes—and here's the perversity that is moi—sending a story out and having it rejected sort of, I dunno, jump starts my perspective. Maybe I'll be able to see this one more clearly once it's been blooded.
My cat's version of hell on earth: All the windows are closed because it's cold so she can't look out and feel the wind in her hair. In addition, Mom's singing along to all the iTunes. There's no way out!
She keeps walking back and forth in front of the speakers and keyboard and meowing. Poor poobie. She'll probably be glad when I go back to work tomorrow. She finally settled down, but I note it was when I got distracted enough not to sing along anymore.