Greetings from the edge.
Been digging through some old short fiction that has been mouldering in my lowest, darkest desk drawer, and, as it turns out, there is a very good reason I never came back to them. I mean, I stand by the central ideas for some of them, but out of a dozen, I have only 3-4 that deserve to see the light of day.
There is one story about a hitman that feels like it was written by somebody who had just discovered both Quentin Tarantino and knock-off laughing gas for the first time. Another one somehow manages to be both painfully earnest and weirdly mean-spirited, which is a difficult trick to pull off. On the plus side, there are a couple in there that still have decent bones. They just need a little surgery and perhaps the literary equivalent of a hose-down in the garden.
I think part of the reason The Bone Garden feels different is that I have finally stopped trying to sound like other people. Older me was very keen to sound “writerly”, which mostly translated to overlong descriptions, too many adverbs (oh! The adverbs!), and characters speaking like they were auditioning for a community theatre production of Shakespeare.
It is strange, though, seeing how much I have improved and grown as a writer.
I have been busy, working on an article and doing some miniature painting, nothing I’m ready to show…yet…but I’m hoping to post a few pics by the end of the week.
I’m enjoying The Three-Body Problem. Please note that enjoying and understanding are two very different things. It might be one of those read twice novels.
See you in the margins,
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