Progress, sort of…

(WARNING: Artist at Work)

Well, I stayed home this past Friday due to a severe case of female-problems (sorry if TMI, but I don’t want the powers that be to think I was playing hooky) and I managed to make some real progress on a short story I started eons ago.

Quick question: Have you ever written something so totally out-of character that it freaks you, the writer, out completely? I’m talking the kind of writing that could have only come out of the deepest recesses of my mind, the kind that makes me wonder if I have repressed childhood trauma that justifies immediate, intensive therapy.

Seriously, I’m scared to submit the polished version of my story to any literary magnate for perusal, for fear that they will A) think I’m am certifiable insane B) pull out a can of weirdo-repellant or C) think that I am the secret love-child of Steven King, or D) Love the story so much that it must be published with copies sent to all my living friends and relatives, who will in turn, have me committed.

See, I’m sounding nuerotic enough already.

I wish Miss Snark would weigh in on the issue: Is writing that is a bit odd, that raises one’s hackles and hits a nerve ultimately a good or a bad thing? Is it one or the other on the merit of the story itself, or is quality writing what matters, regardless of the subject matter?

Please, give me your prozaic thoughts… Or just some Prozac please!


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