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Weeds

 My second completed novel—never published, of course—is one I still think is pretty good.  A little long, I admit, but well written.  It actually had three readers who agreed with both points: too long but well written.  One of them said I needed a good editor.


I’ve read many overly long books.  Just this year alone I’ve read four novels that reached, nearly reached, or went over 500 pages.  One of the standard chestnuts of writing advice is “write short to write long.”  That only applies to some of us.


Life has been so busy lately that I haven’t even been able to send in my damaged disc drive with The Space between Atoms on it, let alone try to get some of my completed stories published.  Some of it has to do with Covid-19, which, I think we’re all glad to see, seems to be releasing its grip on the United States.


I submitted a book of short stories to a contest with Press 53 late last year.  It didn’t even win honorable mention, among the very complementary words the judge composed.  These stories are who I am and I don’t have time to send them in.  What kind of metaphor must that be?


I continue to write, of course.  Like breathing, it’s not optional.  As much as I look forward to not shivering all day in my house, the warmer weather brings yard work and repairs, and all the things we neglected while isolated—does the oil change sticker in your car apply if it hasn’t been driven for more than a few dozen miles?


Long books require a lot of a reader, I know.  My monster novel is, everyone who read it said, interesting.  Perhaps now that the world has been changed by a pandemic, and every book on the newly published list tips the scales at half a millennium of pages, it’s time to revisit novel number two.  Only after I get that oil change, of course.  And I think the neighbors are judging my weeding ability again.




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