I've just now sent off my entry for the Sean O'Faolain Short Story Prize. I enjoyed writing it but I have no idea as to its chances. It's been a strange week for the writing. I've learnt things about myself I never knew and considered options which would have been anathema a month ago. I feel disorientated but not dissatisfied.
One thing I will say is that my faith in the unspoken 'pact' between writer and reader was reinforced ten-fold this week, when a fellow flasher at WriteWords pointed out to me all the many layers of meaning in a piece I wrote on Monday called Gentian Blue. It was as if she'd tapped straight into my subconcious. I think, though, there's a later stage with writing, a more mature achievement, when the author retains his/her Voice but does not intrude into the story-telling. Where, if you like, the author becomes invisible and the Narrative is All. This is a skill which Vanessa Gebbie has mastered to perfection, as her eclectic, Words from a Glass Bubble, demonstrates so admirably. I think I'm still in the foothills, which is fine, but I have a clearer view than ever of the summit and how to get there.
Otherwise it's been work work work. Ah, well. Maybe this afternoon I'll get back to the novel. I miss it. I can almost hear my heroine tapping her toe, waiting for me to return and write the next leg of her journey.