Yesterday morning I sat here and wrote. And wrote. And wrote. I haven't written like that for a while (a major while) and now I'm looking at a finished short story, knowing it needs a little polish, and thinking, I could send this off. (post polish!) I think I will. I think I will actually do it. I want to. But what stops me?
Well, if I send it off and it gets published, I could write more, I would have to admit my favourite genre at the moment is truly utter tripe, but I like it. Nobody would need to know - I have a nom de guerre that I used to use. And I might get paid. Might.
If I send it off and it doesn't get published, then it gets rejected, and I look at why, do some work on it, and resubmit it or send it somewhere else. Nobody aside from the Dear Reader needs to know. And R, obviously.
If I don't send it off, I get to look at it, believing it good enough for publication, but secure in the knowledge that I need not find out for real. The truth need not come out.
But truth should come out.
For a long while, my sig line was
“Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't goin' away.”
It's an Elvis Presley quote, and it struck a chord with me at the time in the face of the lies we were hearing about us from different people. And the truth did come out, and I even had someone admit they were wrong to have listened without asking me about the truth. But that's what I want to know. The truth.
I have always been a truth seeker. R is someone who values the truth, values honesty in a relationship, and so we fit together nicely. The He-Ex made a game of hiding things, of lying, to prove that he had the control in the relationship, to prove he was man over his woman.
So I want the truth about my writing. I've always been told I write well, I won a couple of competitions as a child, and I got 'A' in my A level Language paper.
That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to polish this up, and send it off. I'll keep you posted Dear Reader, and see what happens!
