I’ve been dabbling in a little short story writing lately. I shook the dust off my last written story, Calling All Time Travellers, and gave it a fine-tune (I can hardly believe it’s been two years since I wrote this one). My friend Earl gave it the red pen treatment, and as a result a lot of necessary amendments have been brought to light, which is great. Earl and I have been learning the finer points of grammar in recent months, which should do our writing skills a world of good (his mum just shakes her head when she’s sitting in on our conversations).
It’s been many years since I submitted stories to magazines. Might have a go with this time travel story. Maybe even approach a big mag, like Interzone. I’ve also written the first 600 words of a new story – one with zombies in it. Should have it finished in a short while. Haven’t thought of a name yet. And no, I haven’t forgotten about the novel.
I’d probably get more writing done if I moved the laptop off the living room floor and onto a table in one of the other rooms. I’ve allowed it to take permanent residence beside by projector, for the purpose of watching downloaded TV programmes. And when I do think about moving it to another room, where I can type in a normal posture, I’ve usually kept the heating off in the rest of the house. You see, I’m hoping to move house later this year, and I’m trying to see this winter through with what little oil I’ve got left in the tank. Why spend a hundred quid on a refill, when I’m probably going to be gone? … Yes, you’re right, I’m mean. But only to myself.
Darryl Sloan 