One of the joys in reading bloggers' work is that occasionally one discovers a real storyteller.
http://morialekafa.blogspot.com/ is one of those folks. Happily enough, he's posted a new and poignant story today.
A couple of writers in the group I associate with have recently decided that it would be very neat to have a number of us write a Christmas short story, which they would edit and find an agent for and get the stories published in a small book.
Shouldn't be difficult. The group is full of accomplished and published writers.
The two writers did a lot of planning, and presented the idea last week. It was well received by all but a couple of us.
I'm one of the ones who decided to not participate. Reason being that I don't think short...I think novel length. Not to say I haven't written short stories. I have. Had a couple published and that satisfied that challenge just fine. No need or desire to write any more. Had already written my first book. It's in my closet, never published. Right beside four more. No two alike.
At this point, I've got a novel that's in print and on Amazon. That pretty well satisfied me. Have no idea whether I'll find something I want to write about badly enough to keep me interested for the next two years or not. Takes me a couple of years to write a novel. And when it's through, it's through. If it doesn't sell, up on the shelf in the closet it goes.
Writing is a funny thing. As one writer said, "You can't make a writer write." Truer words were never spoken.
Morialekafa, it seems, writes when he's frustrated out of his mind with the state of the world. Writing, he steps right out of this world and into one of his own creation. Much like sitting down to read for most of us. Which is why, I believe, that there will always be books in their present form. So I'll go now and finish the novel I began reading last night.