How Laziness Pays Off
At the end of this week I was about to plough through the refuse skip that is my email box. Luckily the very first email I looked at was a reply from Ian Redman at Jupiter saying how they liked my story 'Quicker' and if I hadn't submitted to anyone else, would I be happy for it to go into Jupiter? It was lucky - as after the first one or two emails I tend to get a little 'click happy' and for all I know I could be binning Aristotle's second book of the Poetics by the end (From: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: writing sequels).
So like a good writer I obeyed the laws of No-Parallel-Submissions and put it into Jupiter and then forgot about it.
Here then, to raise my week from the dreary mess of antibiotic drugs and overwork, lack of sleep and the eternal feeling that writing deadlines are looming, was a lovely acceptance letter. I can't put my finger on it but it was exactly the right moment for it to appear. It acted as a kick in the pants to get back on track with the submission chapters for A Lamentation on Border and maybe even squeeze out some more short fiction?
On the other hand if I had been more pro-active and hunted around for somewhere else to place it, keep at it as we are constantly being told in that hideous motivational speaker manner, I'd have spent lots of time not writing and probably (knowing me) developing a really splendid inferiority complex.
Best of All Possible Worlds
Leibniz and Voltaire can tussle it out all they like, but perhaps this is a cause for optimism. The writing life is frequently portrayed as nothing but a veil of tears - obviously not for JK, Stephanie Meyer or Suzanne Collins - with nothing but the relentless self-mushing* process to look forward to. No, it's not all like that and perhaps it doesn't even have to be a constant worry? Perhaps we can even enjoy it? There's a thought.
|Leibniz before he joined Queen and changed his name to Brian May.|
*The idea of the writer trying to mush himself, like an eskimo cracking the whip over a gang of huskies quite prepared to run themselves to death does appeal to me as a metaphor, I just don't want to live it.