I want to broaden my horizons.
I am working on my fantasy novel as well as a literary fiction novel. They’re both going fairly well (for first drafts, anyway). I’ve always wanted to be a novelist, ever since I was a little girl.
But these years I’ve spent writing 100-word stories has taught me that I excel at short stories. I get overwhelmed easily in most aspects of my life, and writing is no different. When being concise is necessary, I thrive. It is a completely different experience than trying to organize a novel with 15 characters.
‘I could choose to accept that maybe I’m just not gifted at novel writing, but I don’t think that’s the case. I think it’s merely a symptom of my BPD–I want to please everyone, so I’m trying to write books that will please everyone. Intellectually, I know that’s impossible, but here I am.
So here I am, thinking about my short-story writing abilities that I feel far outmatch my novel-writing abilities. In my free-time, I read a lot of horror, both published works and user-uploaded stories on the internet. I think I’m going to try my hand writing those. Short stories, serials, etc. I think I could do well.
I’ll still be posting 100-word stories frequently. Even more frequently than the past six months have shown. I just also might be posting links to my horror stories as well.
Join me down the dark path.
I feel like the tone for this one is a little different than my usual work, but I like it anyway. The prompt was fancy.
Twinkling at her eye-level, his lapel pin was a breaching humpback whale, with tiny black diamonds for eyes. A little gaudy, perhaps, but his presence here supported a good cause.
Ever since she was a little girl, she’d wanted to Save the Whales. She didn’t know that sitting at his table that night at the gala would give her life the one thing it was missing. She had a career, she had a purpose, she had hobbies. All that was left was companionship.
He kissed her fingers when he bid her goodnight, promising to call her tomorrow for dinner.
© 2018 Heather Stephens
It is said that those with chronic illness or mental illness only have a certain amount of energy with which to do tasks, needful tasks, like personal hygiene and housekeeping. That is why so many with such afflictions either can’t work or perform poorly when working or attending school.
I personally struggle with several debilitating illnesses and afflictions. Some days I can’t brush my own hair, other days I can’t shower. The sicker I get, the more often these days occur. I need help preparing my food. Some days I can’t even feed myself and I need my husband to spoon my food into my mouth.
It’s too much.
But other days, like today, I am capable. I can write, I can think clearly. These days are gifts and I take advantage of every single one.
A messy room. A dirty kitchen.
Lessons in tidiness never heeded.
She stepped over the piles of clothes on her way to get a glass of milk.
It had gone sour.
Of all the reasons one might have to keep a house neat, she possessed only two that kept it filthy.
Her mind. Her sorrows.
Should she obtain a way out of the muck that grimed the kitchen countertops, she would feel a new sort of responsibility. To keep it that way. The thought exhausted her.
The burden of freedom. ‘Twas too much to bear.
She resigned to her suffering.
© 2017 Heather Stephens