My writing has gone to pot over the past two years. I've always had something in the hopper that I've been messing around with. You'll recall my most recent endeavour. That was something I worked on, off and on, for something like seven years. Yeesh. I had to go back and count that up, but it's true.
I started it somewhere in 2002, and then fiddled like a loon for YEARS. To be fair to myself, I did buy two houses, have three children, and change jobs thrice in that time. So, yes, delay. And I queried publishers, got some bites, but ultimately nothing came from it. Result? Self-publishing. I have actually been selling some copies. Nothing that will make the New York Times or anything, but I MAY be able to buy a fancy dinner for my family.
There have been other things I've played with, but nothing I'd call finished. 'Til now. I was kicking an idea around, something I knew that would not be meaty enough for a novel or anything. But that was okay. I was just shooting for a short story. At the end of March, I had a day off, so I got started. And I ended up with sixty pages. Some short story. But I'm whittling away, shaving it down to a reasonable short story size.
Just feels good to (mostly) finish something.