Some time ago, I told myself that if I wasn’t a writer by 30, maybe it was time to give up. It seemed far away at the the time, but realistic enough to scare myself into action. I was off on both counts.
Inevitably, 30 rolled around, nestled in an annoyingly fraught week between Christmas and New Year. I was as much a writer as an occasional dash for the bus made me a runner; I was familiar enough with the mechanics to keep upright, but I wouldn’t be taking home any medals.
It’s OK. I’ve long since realised that things don’t always work out the way we plan.
But at the very same time, it’s not OK. I didn’t fail to hit that ridiculous deadline because things didn’t work out, or life got in the way, or I crashed and burned spectacularly. I didn’t hit it because I didn’t really try. Not in a real enough sense that could absolve me of my own frustration, at any rate.
So here I am, making the offering of 1 short story per week to the blog gods. I have no doubt that some will be terrible, some will be fine, and a small fraction might even be good. I’d rather write badly than not write at all.
I hope you enjoy them, and I don’t care if you don’t. I didn’t write them for you, anyway.