Category Archives: Insecure writers

Writing short stories is hard

What am I feeling insecure about this month?  What we all fear. That others will not like our arrangement of words, as we do.

 Although I am feeling a trifle jet lagged after the A-Z challenge, it is not that which has prompted this, I had had some very nice comments.  No, it was in fact some good news which prompted this blog.

 When I began to write seriously, four years or so ago, I joined a local writing class, became hooked.  I was told in the class, and in everything I read about the subject, that short story writing was HARD.  I shied away.  Not for this old lady, if it was hard.  I was having trouble enough at the beginning to string coherent sentences (I have a big problem with a few basics such as spelling, grammar,  punctuation and …well you get the picture:)  Short stories were just things we played around with in class, you know the one, have a prompt write for 10 minutes,  then read it out if you dare.  I enjoyed it, I have to say –always been gabby, me.

 I was trying to get the hang of short stories during a summer break when Ellen’s Tale emerged; it was meant to be a short story, not the first in a series:(  they had warned me short story writing is HARD!

 I carried on with the prompts.  Wrote a short fairy tale of her life, for a friend of mine, on the occasion of her birthday.  Wrote more of the prompts, enlarged on a few at home.  Allowed imagination free reign.  Wrote some very strange ‘mental ones’ as my friend from forever/editor called them. She did not like my series, but for some reason did like the short stories – showed them to her friends.  Said write some more, publish them.

 My friend from forever/editor is the reason I am in print. She has slaved hard to knock this Dyspraxic writer into shape over the years,  it seemed right togive in.  Keep your editors sweet seems to be a good rule:) My friends, of course all bought them in the print version, but I have to confess I did not push them, because I was scared frankly that I would be laughed off the circuit.  They were not proper short stories.  Short stories are HARD and I had found them easy. So my friend from forever/editor was obviously wrong.  I split them up into smaller Vols. for the e-book version, but still didn’t really push them.

 I still enjoyed writing them mind, they were my therapy when I was bogged down with the novels, and because I had no faith in them, I could allow myself to experiment.  They didn’t always have a plot:( they didn’t always have hero/heroine:(. Sometimes they didn’t really have a conclusion:(     I was having fun messing around with words basically.

 My friends liked them, but we all know, don’t we, that friends and family are suspect, because they may not be telling how it is.  I tried a couple of flash fictions in a couple of groups I had joined and received some nice comments.  I began to look at my strange stories and look around at others.  I found others were writing strange stories, experimenting with form and playing around with words.  Maybe.  Just maybe friend from forever/editor wasn’t just being a friend.

 Then the week that the A-Z challenge came slithering to a halt I received an unexpected review for the first Vol of Patchwork of Perspectives.  I had barely met her – Prudence MacLeod a fellow ROW8′er but new to me.  She liked the little stories.  What? Someone liked them enough to review the book, without a request from me.  To say I was flabbergasted is to be rather British about it:)  I went to bed that night wondering if they all had it wrong about it being HARD, maybe I could write short stories.

 Maybe I should have more faith in myself, more faith in my friends.

 I have often read Indie books that I have liked but I am slow/bad at putting up reviews.  Maybe the authors suffer from the same insecurities as myself.  I am going to try harder to read Indies and put in a good word, if I enjoy them. Maybe I can send someone to bed happy. Build up another’s  confidence.  Give them a little more faith in themselves.

I’m no Charles Dickens!

Some days I wonder why I claim to be a writer.  An author I am, I have published 4 books of so-so merit but a writer?  No.  Why?

These last few weeks I have read two fantastic books, I remembered others and I have celebrated a birthday.

These are all great events, enjoyable events, events to smile and jubilate about.

These are also events to plunge one into gloom and despair!

I read two books this month which have delighted me.  Ruby’s Spoon and Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children.  I have posted about the first and Peculiar Children will be up this week.  This is not a review of either.  This is a small song of praise to an imaginative use of language and ideas, of the stunningly good debut novels from these two authors.  I got to thinking of other debuts that had blown me away.  There are many, The Kite Runner springs instantly to mind, The Purple Hibiscus and Small Island, Catch-22 and let us not forget one of my all time favourites To Kill a Mockingbird far too many others to mention here.  Brilliant (in my opinion) books. First time authors, first stories.  So good. Oh so devastatingly good!

The birthday boy  was of course Charles Dickens.  Two hundred years old this year.  Well not him of course – he died and moulded away years ago.  But his stories, those fantastical tales of life and times.  Now many of you will groan, roll eyes, shrug and say ‘Oh not him’.  Many people do not rate Charles Dickens highly.  His style and manner out of fashion decades past. His prose too purple, his adjectives and adverbs too liberal.  Penned in a more leisurely time for folk who listened more and had fewer distractions and written in cliff hanging instalments, his were stories that need work nowadays.

They are worth the work in my opinion, but I accept that for many. . .  well then. I cut my reading teeth on him and his ilk 6 decades ago so they remain delights for me.  For all of us who claim to be writers though, whether fan or not, it’s the birthday which may depress.  Two hundred years and he is still being read, his stories are still being dramatised, his characters are still known.  I know in 200 years  mine will not be remembered.

So this month I wonder why I bother.  Wonder if it’s fools gold I seek.

Next month I hope to read a devastatingly BAD book and cheer myself up again!!!

follow all our insecurities!:(

‘The right sort dear’: Insecure Writers

It is a brand new year – look it sparkles in it’s frosty promises.  It is a time to believe again. Rested and relaxed, old disappointments consigned to the flames, it is the time of brand new beginnings.

It doesn’t do to look backward over one’s shoulder at the shadows behind. Doubt and fear must be ignored, sent away, not worthy of our friendship.

How long will it take to forget the sparkle of now, days, weeks or will we manage months before we allow our old friends doubt and fear back into our intimate circle again.  We know they are ‘a bad lot’, warned about them as children but we find their attractiveness, their attention, comforting and easy.

Self-believe, self-confidence, now those are two are so difficult to get along with.  Their constant demands and high expectations make close friendship with them difficult.  We have to work hard at the relationship, give more of ourselves. These two are the golden ones; listen to the voices of childhood, these are the ‘right sort dear’.