Secrecy, writing, and a life of anonymity.
Wow, I realised today that I have been writing for the last 14 years (give or take a month or two) and I’ve amassed a collection of short stories that have done little more than gather dust in an old trunk in the garage. Every once in a while I’ll dip back into them and take a look, and for the most part there’s some decent stuff tucked away – though I have no idea what to do with them. The UK short story market is a little scant to say the least, more so if you love your horror/supernatural stories. But that’s not to say I haven’t done anything else. I have. There’s been the occasional submissions to agents (and they all came back with the obligatory “your work is good and we love the way it reads, but...” and that is as far as I got. I haven’t given up; I’m just biding my time.
But therein lays the problem: I like to write in secret. I love forming a world from words and plunging my characters into situations that could only ever exist/happen in the darkest recesses of my imagination. But, as I said, I love to write in secret. I hide behind my pen name, and I keep pushing one piece of work out after another, but without much effort to sell them afterwards. Perhaps I need to be a little more open and show them around a little more, but for now I’m tempted to patch a book together for kindle and see what becomes of it. I can self publish that way, promote, and hype myself up as much or as little as I like. But I’m not sure. That’s for the future.
In any case, right now I have another short to finish off. There’s a boat in distress close to the lighthouse on Cotton Bay, and I have no idea what (who?) is onboard and the rescue party is already at sea.
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