Isn’t it strange that time just disappears? Since I’ve stopped teaching, I’m noticing more and more that entire days and weeks can just zip by without leaving so much as a distinct memory, let alone a sense of accomplishment.
Who says time flies when having fun? Maybe the normal speed for time is stuck on the fast setting, but nobody’s really noticed because they hate their jobs so it’s all slowed down as a consequence. Perhaps celebrities have a reputation for not being the brightest pencils in the shed because they’ve spent so little time doing the boring things, and as a consequence have had much less time to learn things. Unlikely, I know, but why should the physicists be the only ones who get to speculate about the nature of time?
I think what I’m trying to get at is that none of my current fiction projects seem to have got very far in the last week or so. The agonisingly slow redraft of The Twist is difficult to quantify, and the eight separate query letters I’ve written for it seem mostly to have turned my brain inside out and mashed it with forks. Meanwhile the Airborne Empire (working title) first draft has hit the 75% mark but the more I think about my planned ending, the more issues I find with it.
I remember Brandon Sanderson talking about how, at this point, he finds himself phoning his editor and panicking about how terrible his writing is. Do all creatives apart from the hopelessly delusional ones find themselves constantly questioning their ability and picking holes that nobody else would ever notice? If yes, then what does that say about humanity? If no, then what does it say about me?
Still, one of my drabbles is featured on SpeckLit today. Ah, there’s that sense of accomplishment thing I was talking about.