Over the course of this three day weekend, I’ve completely overhauled fifteen stories. Fifteen. That brings the grand total of stories making the rounds to 23. I’m starting to feel like a writer again.

It’s weird: having two stories out in print, you’d think I’d be sure I was a writer. I mean, it’s what I was shooting for all those years, desperate to make even one sale. But for the last two years, I’ve really been more focused on holding down my first full-time job and all the tsuris that comes from being out in the real world. I haven’t had much time for writing, haven’t finished the stories or novels I started. Writing was starting to feel like something I did when I was younger, when I had time. A hobby.

But this weekend, every old, broken story I opened, I instantly knew how to fix. It was like I had suddenly attained this amazing new level of skill without realizing it. I was writing for pure pleasure again; not to get published, not to compete with someone else’s success, just writing because it gave me pleasure and because I could do it well. I felt like a god.


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