I’ve been writing for a couple of years. It is, to be fair, one of the more unusual pursuits. If one thing sums up what it’s been like, it’s five minutes I spent in a shop earlier this year.
It was a Tuesday morning, and I was explaining to the owner (I’m gonna call them individual ZB681*) why he should listen to a new story. He nodded as I bullshitted on about space rockets and wormholes, and as he did a customer walked in. I turned around to tell the customer that they should also give the story a go, and as I did I spotted individual ZB681’s reflection in the mirrored back of a display. He was making the forehead tap/ international signal for:
‘this fella’s not the full shilling, just humour him.’
*I’ve chosen not to disclose the names of Stephen Mullane or Ronan McNamara so as to protect the guilty.
And that’s pretty much writing.
Except when ya see or hear a review.
When author Brendan Gavin drew out the message that was wrapped up in the ball of cod science that is ‘Hyb it meant that on some level the story worked -which is all any writer can ask for.
His review is up on the indy corner of Fabulous New Catalog of Amazing Things; am linking it here as it’s something I’m proud of and I see it as evidence that writing isn’t a waste of time;)