Have you ever written a story you knew, just knew, was going to be a breakthrough? That would take you to the next level–be that your first sale, your first sale to a pro mag, or the eventual Nebula-winner that will net you a book deal?
Well, good for you, Miss Nostradamus. The closest I’ve ever come is writing stories I knew wouldn’t embarrass me outright in the slushpiles of Asimov’s. Today, I finished a story that isn’t even that.
It is, however, a story that fires on every cylinder I’ve got. For better or worse, it’s me. It’s a raging joke of a story, breezy and ridiculous and absurd–but there’s a real emotional component to it, too. I’d like to think it skates the border of dumb nonsense while remaining a serious story. It’s not a fence-sitter or a meh. Likely, it’ll be loved or hated, or both in equal measure.
I got no idea how this little monster will handle the slushpile, whether it’ll devour everything in its path or get stomped out as an abomination. I am very happy to have written it.
Leave a Reply