Less than a week after snow I’m breaking my sandals out, as we seem to have accelerated through Spring and into Summer this week. Fittingly, my summer working hours kicked in this week so I have slightly more time outside of the day job in which to wander on the moor, in the woods, or by the river, or read a book with the cat sprawled on me. Or, of course, write.
I don’t seem to have written much fiction lately (or this blog, come to think of it). Book reviews, an essay (which will probably appear here if it doesn’t get accepted where it’s been submitted), spontaneous and natural links for the radio programme, but not much in the way of stories except a couple of pieces of flash fiction. I wrote one of those for a competition and it’s already not been shortlisted, and the other I wrote because I felt like it, then sent it to a magazine that doesn’t mention on its website that it’s closed to submissions for a while. They will both now sit in my pending folder for another few months till I go through another bout of enthusiasm.
I love writing, as you can no doubt tell. I even finish things sometimes, though it can take a while (I finished the first draft of a novella a few weeks ago, first started in 2012 I think). What I don’t like so much is submitting stories to competitions and magazines. All those fiddly guidelines, subtly different from one place to the next. All those cover emails where I’m never quite sure what to say (or submission forms where a cover letter is optional. Does it look bad if I don’t? Will they read it if I do?). I’d be a lot happier sometimes if I could just get on and write and not worry about submitting, re-submitting, reformatting and all that jazz. But then, what’s the point of writing it all if no-one reads it?