Ten tiny baby toes. Those are the happy reason for my silence over the past couple of months. She’s here, and she’s precious, and I’ve been drinking in this new beginning as our family navigates the imbalance that naturally comes with big changes. Slowly but surely we’re finding out stride.
Zero writing has taken place, of course. But in the meantime, I’m devouring books of short stories–and by “devouring” I mean “reading a couple of paragraphs every other day, because that’s the amount of spare time I have.” That’s the definition of the word, right? Sometimes I forget that reading contributes to my growth as a writer and I feel like I’m only progressing if I’m actually working on my stuff. But that’s not true. And while I am brainstorming ways to include regular writing and editing into my new rhythm (even if that rhythm is more like an improvisational jazz piece rather than a steady Sousa-like beat), I have mainly been reading short stories. Gaiman, of course (because he’s my favorite right now), and Lovecraft. Upright Beasts by Lincoln Michel, too. I find picking out fiction to be a very daunting task, though, and it takes me forever to find a book, overthink it, and get it. With non-fiction, at least I know that if I like the subject, it’s pretty certain that I’ll like the book. Anyone have any short story recommendations?
I’ve also been listening to Brandon Sanderson’s lectures on writing when I’m nursing my little one, and those have been fantastic. I can’t wait to get back into writing and editing so I can apply what I’ve learned. It’ll come. There’s a time and season. Right now, those tiny feet command most of my attention, and I’m happy to give it.