Not a day or two after telling someone I haven't written a short story for awhile, I find myself waking up to the pen and paper by the side of my bed and scribbling one down in thirty minutes. The thing is, though, I wonder if people will worry about me overly because of the subject matter, which is suicide.

Maybe it just needs a rewrite. It might be good to allude to some other detail to flesh it out. Perhaps the speaker isn't rounded enough. Hmm...

I'm very glad, though. And the thing that I've found with writing fiction is how transferrable it often is to other genres. I can easily (well, relatively easily) rewrite it to a radio-play, shorten it, lengthen it... umm, what else?

I guess my imagination's failed me just now. Ah, well.

Dipping more frequently into Astley's Staying Alive. Maybe if I read enough, all that talent will infuse me, infect me.

I have been searching for more places to send my poems quite a lot lately. It's quite annoying not to have a printer, but I guess I make more considered decisions and submissions, rather than hasty ones.