Three stories in three days

I'm quite surprised to say, I did it. I managed to rattle off three stories for three competitions, all due in between the 14th and 15th of February, over three days between Saturday and Monday. They totalled around 7,000 words. That might not seem like much, but it wasn't a case of being able to work on them full-time - that's one luxury I dream of. Around trying to write about Superstition, Autograph Hunters, and the open short story category of the VS Pritchett Memorial Prize, for which I had to come up with a genre, category and concept, I had to fit all the normal duties of housework, shopping, working, etc, along with my niece's first birthday party (which was fantastic fun). So I'm pleased that I managed to complete them at all.

Much thanks to my proofing collective of Tom, Claire and my mum, for reading through all my bumpf. Now I'll be keeping my fingers crossed for another few months...

Creative constipation

Must. Write. Something.

I've got less than a week now to come up with 3 short stories, and I'm going to lose at least half the weekend attending my niece's first birthday party. Which will be fun, but won't, I fear provide a conducive environment for writing prize-winning fiction.

First up, though, an apology if anyone has actually been reading my ramblings. Or rambling, more precisely. My eagerly anticipated Morrissey gig, the only Christmas present I got that wasn't slippers, was cancelled, throwing me into a tumultuous state of depression, moping and utter unproductiveness for nearly a week. I stared. I sulked. I slept a lot. I listened to other people who claimed to have my best interests at heart wish Mozzer ill. I had a fight with a moron at Temple Meads train station. What I didn't do was write.

The nearest thing I can compare a 'writing itch' to is a nicotine craving. If I don't get my hit, I'm basically a not very nice person. Write for an hour a day and I'm fine; don't write and I quickly become evil. It's the most horrible feeling in the world when your muse ups and leaves you.

Last weekend I made a prearranged family trip to St Ives, which proved to be just the tonic. Slowly, I began to tease out a complex three-way scene towards the end of my novel. It took its time, but I'm hoping it was worth it.

Now, however, I'm staring at a picture of a man in his pants (the delectable James Sutton - John Paul in the soap Hollyoaks) hoping it will inspire me to write a story that's good enough for the Royal Society of Literature. But nothing is coming. I fear I am creatively constipated once more...