I’m not putting up a review this week, because I don’t feel like copying old notes. Instead, here’s this:
I wrote a short story yesterday. A page and a half. I used to think that short stories needed to be around 10 pages, give or take, but I think anything over 2 might be a waste of my time anymore. I don’t mean as a reader, but as a writer. I want to write the purest essence of the story in as little space as possible. Nothing but the absolutes. If I can’t do it in less than 4 pages, it should be 400.
And it was exhilarating. A totally new idea. Not the same story I’ve been battling with in multiple iterations for a decade. I don’t know that I can explain that feeling, the feeling of, this is an idea fully realized, set down from my imagination. This is mine, created whole cloth from fucking nothing. This is the closest a human being can ever get to actually being God. And if you know nothing else about me, you must know that all I want is to be God.
That feeling is why I write. I don’t get it very often, but the fix is worth the pain. I can ride that high for a solid day, which is a long time for me to be up. It feels like I’m a fool masquerading as a genius, a dum-dum who’s stumbled upon the theory of relativity.
And it must be blind luck. If there were skill to it, I’d have learned how to recreate that feeling every day by now, right? I don’t think I’m that terrible at writing, but what do I know?