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October 17th: An Avalanche of Serial Killers

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A small shrubbery, between an asphalt road and a red brick wall. The bushes are topiary'd into rather improbabl, almost cartoonish, lollipops. Most of the bushes are green, a few are brown (possibly dead). Across the asphalt in green: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 17 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble…

An Avalanche of Serial Killers

The bookshop was run on a shoestring. Broken-down shelving units nobody else wanted, and more racks improvised from cardboard boxes. The mugs were chipped, and the coffee was instant, but we all loved working there.

Overnight, something gave way. Something in True Crime.

It slipped, then everything went down like dominoes.

In the morning, we couldn't get the door to the back room open, not with any amount of shoving.

Through the tiny gap, Dahmer's eyes stared up from a faux-torn book-jacket.

"I appreciate this isn't the worst thing you've done," I told him, "but bloody hell. On a Saturday."

This morning, I had a brief conversation on Mastodon with the editor of a magazine. (Inner Worlds… which looks like it’s going to be great. Consider supporting them if you'd like more short speculative fiction in your life! Or submit a story to them if that's your thing, you’ve got until the end of the month!)

Anyway, in the course of the conversation Sarah, Inner Worlds’ editor, used the phrase an avalanche of serial killers.

And now here we are.

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October 16th: Man's Best Friend

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A mass of green foliage, dotted with red berries. Vertically up the image, in red text: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 16 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Today’s drabble again has a content warning for death/dying.

Here is today’s drabble…

Man’s Best Friend

From the corridor, Bill's voice was quiet but still audible.

"I'm dying, Hinny. I'm scared. I'm so glad you're here."

The nurses exchanged whispers.

"Hinny?"

"Childhood pet, I think. Might've been a dog?"

Bill's hand fluttered over a small hollow in the duvet.

Richard nodded to his colleague. "I'll sit with him."

He slipped into the room, and stayed until Bill didn't need him any more.

When the mortuary guys had left, a faint depression remained in the covers.

"C'mon, Hinny, it's time to go. You've been a good boy." Rich paused before stripping the bed. "Such a good boy."

I finished today’s drabble, and carefully edited it down to 100 words in my software of choice. Which is emacs, a weird kitchen-sink of a text program which does a bewildering array of things including counting words.

Counting words is, it turns out, something it does extremely badly. In particular, I’ve just learned that it considers any word with an apostrophe to be two words. Today, my inital “100 word” story turned out only to have 90 words in it when counted by more… conventional means.

As someone who has used emacs for everything for around thirty years, I am mildly staggered by this.

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October 15th: Small Boats

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Branches, covered in red-brown leaves, silhouetted against a grey-blue sky. Sideways up the picture in dark blue: #DRABBLETOBER.
 

Day 15 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble…

Small Boats

Halfway down the second bottle, there was a ferocious bang outside. Yet another one. I tried to ignore it, but ten minutes later I was out wading through the woodland.

It was the usual: scattered metalwork; tiny outbreaks of fire easily snuffed among the damp trees; dead bodies. Two men, in frock coats and straight trousers, their arms tightly round each other.

We can't catch all the operators. They travel back to hang around by the Wapping steps, touting their flimsy zinc-sided machines as safe, and offering desperate couples a chance to skip forwards to a safer time. Profiteering bastards.

It’s a little late this evening, so this is an idea off the emergency ideas list.

The Victorians invented capitalism. They’d be doing this if they could.

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October 14th: I Know You're Out There Somewhere

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Day 14 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

I Know You’re Out There Somewhere

I'm running late, taking stairs two at a time and legging it through Soho. I'm giving my name on the door, and heading down the dark stairs. I'm grabbing a beer and chatting to strangers.
The stage lights come on, blood red and white; hooded figures and inverted neon crucifixes as the guitarist smashes across the stage.
And I want to reach that eighteen year old, sitting at home listening to pirated Pixies tapes and reading Gibson, crushed by an oppressive relationship and hopelessly dreaming of a future she can't articulate.
And I want to tell her: you'll get there.

This evening, I’ve been down in the red-and-black, history-soaked atmosphere of the 100 Club, listening to The Frank & Walters (or, as my friend Landmine insists on styling them, The Frankenwalters).

This story isn’t about that gig. It’s about a gig some years ago, when St Agnes played the Borderline. And I suddenly realised I had turned into everything that my teenage self longed to be.

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October 13th: Poor Esme

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Several clusters of bobbly brown toadstools growing through sparse grass. Across the bottom of the image in mushroom-colour: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Poor Esme

There was only one photograph of my mother's youngest sister. Among the family groups, the little girl's portrait had a heavy, ugly frame. "Poor Esme," granny always said when she looked at it. Esme was never mentioned, otherwise, and I guessed she died young.

Eventually, I asked granny whether she was superstitious about fairies taking Esme.

"What?" she said. "Fairies? Do they steal children?"

"Never mind, granny. I just wondered about the iron frame."

"Oh, Lord love you. That's not to keep the fairies out." She chuckled as she set it back on the piano. "That's to keep her in."

As noted previously, I am re-using last year’s #drabbletober pictures. I don’t actually remember where I found that rather lovely crop of mushrooms (or toadstools). I’m pretty sure there are fairies living in them, though.

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October 12th: Cleared

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Three autumnal sycamore leaves, lying on an earth floor. From left to right they are yellow, orange, and green. Across the image in orange: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Cleared

Hello! Come in, do take a seat. Nine-thirty? Excellent.

Yes, please come through. Leave your belongings here, they'll be quite safe.

Oh, no. There's no electrode cap, of course not. What do you think this is, the twentieth century? Ha, yeah, I know.

Yes, just there. A little to the left? Comfortable?

Great. Hold still.

That's it, please remember to collect your things.

For our own quality control, a few questions...

Do you feel any guilt? remorse? We have video footage of the event if you need to verify your emotions.

None at all?

Excellent.

Thank you for your custom.

I thought it was time for something a bit more sci-fi. Because sci-fi is definitely not horror, right?

Vaguely terrifying post-script: someone described, recently, a conversation they’d had with their kid. It concerned something that had happened in the 80s, or "as my kids call it, the late 1900s”. Apparently the twentieth century was quite a long time ago. I don’t really understand how this occurred.

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October 11th: And Tell Your Father Why There Are No Peas WIth Dinner

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A close up of bronze, brown and yellow leaves on a bush. Across the image in yellow letters: #DRABBLETOBER
 

And Tell Your Father Why There Are No Peas WIth Dinner

"Helena!"

Uh-oh. Full name. That meant trouble.

"Helena Dean!"

Surname. Big trouble.

She peered around the garage door.

"Helena Baynham Dean, why are there ice trolls in the chest freezer?"

That didn't even seem like a difficult question. "Because if I left them on the side, they'd melt?"

"Don't get smart with me, young lady. You know perfectly well what I meant."

Oh. That.

"Because they were getting attacked by the fire lizards, and I felt really sorry for them, and they're so small..."

"Lena, I know it's hard. But we can't get involved. You put them back, right now."

Am serious horror writer. Honest.

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October 10th: Shift Handover

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A long view of English country side, very flat against the bottom of the picture, some autumunal trees in the foreground. Most of the picture is blue sky, with white clouds. Across the sky in brown: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Shift Handover

I'm strong in my domain when the terrible door slams open again.

"Hello?" she says, blearily, and my heart sinks. Now He will be here soon.

The door, I urge. It's dangerous, you're not safe. Listen!

"Hello?" she asks, again.

He taps me on the shoulder, letting me know He's ready to take over.

The door! I scream, but I'm growing weaker.

He shoulders me aside, as casually as I do Him when she falls asleep. He's ready with smooth words: it's just a shadow, there's nothing wrong, no door there. There's nothing to be afraid of.

You're awake now.

The night before last, I was abruptly woken by the door next to my bed opening. I could see it standing ajar, but not make out who was there. I, too, asked “hello?”

As my thoughts fell into place I realised several things: I was in my own bedroom. There is no door in the wall beside the headboard. There was no shadowy intruder, just the dark shape of a curtain.

Nothing to worry about.

Probably.

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October 9th: We Are Sorry To Announce

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The tips of a tree's branches with yellow, orange and green leaves bright against a blue sky. Across the image in pale blue letters: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 9 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

We Are Sorry To Announce…

Rahid glanced at the needle: not quite dangerous yet. Maybe they'd get through rush-hour.

He breathed slowly, while Steve droned on about Arsenal.

The needle swung abruptly, and Rahid's fingers flicked the emergency reset. Alarms sounded. Signals changed. Trains braked. The home-made tin-foil gauge dropped steadily back to zero.

"You... you... " Steve stammered. "You reset that on purpose! I saw you! I should report..."

Rahid turned round slowly.

"Shut up. This isn't your patch. This line has to be fed. Regularly. Commuters' frustration, anger, horror... we give it little doses. Bust signals. Minor delays.

If we don't give, it takes."

I’ve crossed London twice today, and - contrary to what you might be imagining - my journeys went extremely smoothly.

Of course, I rarely get on that line any more.

In unsolicited reading recommendation news: if you secretly like the idea that there are engineers down there with home-made magical gauges, keeping the tube lines running as well as possible, you should try Rivers of London. I don’t think that idea actually features, but it’s very much that kind of a world.

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October 8th: Bubbles

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Day 8 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge!

Please note that today’s drabble comes with a generalised content warning (suicide, murder, death). If that is something you don’t need today, please give this one a skip and we’ll see you tomorrow.

Here is today’s drabble:

Bubbles

The bubbles rose.

Delicate columns, from the base of the glass to the surface. His eyes lost focus.

Had the bubbles streamed from her mouth like that, as she slipped under? Notes written, choices made, closed eyes and the thin strand of her last breath, drifting upwards.

There had been a note, hadn't there?

Bubbles, always bubbles, rising in clouds through the green depths after she slipped.

Bubbles, thrashing through the lake as she fought, thumbs on her throat. Surely not his thumbs. She must have slipped. Perhaps there was a note.

Ah, barman, another. Yes. Thanks.

The bubbles rose.

I’ve been away this weekend, with some lovely friends. After everyone dispersed to various motorways and trains, I treated myself to a glass of prosecco in a hotel bar while I waited for my train.

The bubbles in the prosecco were much smaller than I think is usual, and I found myself fascinated by the way they constantly stream upwards. What causes the seemingly inexhaustible strings of minute beads? Yeah, I know: carbon dioxide escaping from the liquid and collecting at nucleation sites, such as irregularities in the glass. But somehow, knowing that doesn’t make the bubbles any less fascinating.

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October 7th: It Ain't What You Do, It's The Way That You Do It

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A mass of greenery, and red-leafed creeper, in the foreground, almost obscuring a red-brick house. Across the picture in red letters: # DRABBLETOBER.
 

Day 7 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

It Ain't What You Do, It's The Way That You Do It

Janine sighed, and contorted her hands to hold down three of the buttons while tapping another. Again.

The printer rattled, flashing all its lights a colour she'd never seen before. Janine could almost feel it ignoring her documents.

She picked up the phone.

"Hi, Rick. The printer... Yes, I remember, but... Yes. Three times already."

Fifteen minutes later, Janine glared while Rick held down buttons.

"Is that blood under your fingernails?"

"No!" he snapped.

The printer whirred smoothly to life.

In the stairwell, Rick called a number which appeared nowhere on the intranet.

"Yeah, stick another goat on the order."

My day job recently moved to a new office. The new office has new printers.

‘Nuff said.

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October 6th: The Last of Grandmother's Roses

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Overhead view of two blooming pale pink roses, blurre ground, stems and grass in the backgound. Across the image in pink text: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 6 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

The Last of Grandmother's Roses

The afternoon sun lit the falling petals. I'd watered the roses; dead-headed them, read endless plant-care articles. But by the time grandma died there was only one flower left.

Grandma always said roses needed conversation. I took my cuppa into the garden.

"Hi, Roses. I guess you know about grandma."

I didn't know what to say. I gulped tea.

"Jim says I’m stupid talking to roses. He says a lot of things are stupid, like feeding stray cats. The other day..."

Ten minutes later, I was surprised to find my mug empty. Against the wall, a tiny bud showed pearl-pink.

Anyone who followed my #drabbletober posts last year, and is particularly observant, may have noticed that I am reusing all the same images I used last year. I set up the template for this post some days ago, and wrote today’s story in my head while eating dinner in a Polish restaurant.

I didn’t realise until just now that the image matches the story rather well.

Also, Polish restaurants: bacon in everything. Cabbage? Bacon. Mashed potato? Bacon. It’s bloody brilliant.

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October 5th: It Must Be Something In The Biscuits

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Day 5 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

It Must Be Something In The Biscuits

Three hours into mathematics coaching, Belinda began to scream. Everyone glared.

Only two months to go until the exams and we still had so much to cover. Noone had time for Belinda's histrionics.

Which didn't stop.

Ms Margolon yelled, and Belinda fell from her chair, thrashing her head against the floor. My head ached just watching her.

Millie, next to me, looked scared. Her breathing got louder and louder, and I could almost feel her shaking. She began to scream.

My head pounded, screams sawing my nerves. When Lydia screamed behind me, I couldn't stand it any more.

I screamed.

This morning, I was catching up on an old episode of My Favorite Murder, in which they were talking about Mass Psychogenic Illness (formerly known as Mass Hysteria) and the Dancing Plagues of medieval Europe.

So on my commute today, I was reading about MPI, and the thing that struck me was that (at least in so far as I could Google on a phone, with poor signal) there are no accounts of how it feels to be caught up in an episode. Possibly because most people involved are unimpressed with the “psychogenic” diagnosis and prefer to believe they are the victims of covered-up poisonings, toxic environments, viruses etc.

Today's drabble is an exploration of how it might feel to be there at the start of an outbreak.

Oh, and hey - marketing segue - did you know I had a story about the dancing plague in an anthology last year? The anthology proposes a wide variety of fantasy and sci-fi explanations for the Dancing Plague. So if you'd like to know what it is like to be caught up in university politics, rather than MPI, you could read my story Interdisciplinary!

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October 4th: A Time For Prayer

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A display of hydrangeas varying from deep pink at the back to pale blue and green in the foreground. In lilac letters across the image: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 4 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

A Time For Prayer

It was my turn. I solemnly waited while my cousin stood beside the coffin, and then took his place on the kneeler. I bowed my head as he silently closed the door.

Then I sat back, and took an Agatha Christie from my pocket. After thirty minutes my bum had gone to sleep, so I stood up, and stretched.

"I'm not being rude, Aunty," I joked. "I just know you didn't care for this stuff."

"I know, dear."

My aunt's voice. My atheist, rationalist, scientist aunt's voice; her eyes closed, her lips not moving.

I flung myself to my knees.

Earlier this year, I went to the Ghost Story festival in Derby (it was loads of fun! if you like writing ghost stories, you should totally go! and the museum it’s held in is a fabulous venue in its own right! see https://www.ukghoststoryfestival.co.uk/ for details). As part of a writing exercise, at one point a class tutor invited us to consider what we would do if “a man in Victorian attire walked in through the wall” right then and there.

Sitting in a well-lit room full of nice people, chatting about ghosts, it seemed completely implausible that any such arrival would be scary. I imagined my first response would have been along the lines of “errr, is this some sort of prank? how is everyone else reacting? how was that effect achieved?”

In reality, if I saw something incontrovertibly ghostly, I imagine my reaction would be much less calm. I imagine most people’s would

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October 3rd: Lucky Jim

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A very late sunset, mostly covered by grey-blue clouds, over a very still sea. The faded sunset are colours are reflected in the water. Across the image in purple text: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 3 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Lucky Jim

Lucky Jim was lightning fast.

Lucky Jim had a wicked sharp knife.

Lucky Jim cut the throats of a thousand soldiers.

Lucky Jim was never caught.

The occupying soldiers imposed curfews. They randomly searched men in the streets. They arrested half the men in the town. They never found Lucky Jim.

One day, old Mr Ephraim announced that, in his youth, he'd been Lucky Jim. No-one saw who cut his throat that night.

Under her blanket, by the fire, my grandmother nodded. "Ephraim was dying. Legends cannot be allowed to die."

My mother yawned, and stretched, and began making breakfast.

This is one of those stories where I do fear that I’ve taken out slightly too much to get it under the word limit. Let me know what you think!

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October 2nd: The Thoughts of a Succession of Men at The Desk in Room 3

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Day 2 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

The Thoughts of a Succession of Men at The Desk in Room 3

1895

Iron alone won't be enough; they'll need to paint ritual markings, too. Henry has spoken to the blacksmiths, and reckons they can hide the runes in a fanciful design.

1948

Thank God the bombs missed it. Henry would have been terrified it would get loose.

1999

The paint's peeling right off. We'll have to redo it, though all that gilding seems unnecessary - I suppose it'll be pretty for the Millennium. Wonder who "Henry" was.

2033

The bill was horrific thirty years ago. We can't waste taxpayers' money: clean off the worst of the rust, coat of black paint, done.

Once, long ago, in the Beforetimes, I worked in an office in Holborn. Occasionally, my lunchtime walks would stray far enough East to take me over Holborn viaduct. The viaduct is an impressive affair: dark red paint, the arms of the City of London, and a large number of painted statues of dragons.

Recently, my office (sort of same job, different company) relocated. I’m currently auditioning different commuting routes, and today saw a twenty minute stretch of walking which took me under Holborn viaduct. The viaduct is held up by beautiful stone pillars, complete with gilded capitals, and ribs that are carved into curlicues, flowers, and dragons. The red paintwork at the sides is a mass of detailed gilding, and more dragons. You can get a decent view of it on Google Streetview.

The viaduct was built slap-bang in the middle of the Victorian Twiddly period. That’s probably all there is to it.

Probably.

A couple of people have asked what the easiest way of keeping up with drabbletober’s drabbles is. There’s a few options: if you use RSS feeds (which basically no-one does if they are not over 40 and a geek), then you can get a feed of this blog. I post links on Twitter and Mastodon. Or you could visit this link at your convenience to see all the drabbles-so-far on one page.

If none of those suit you, and you trust me with your email address, drop me a line through the comment form and ask to be added to a daily mail when the day’s drabble is cooked. This will be an unofficial drabbletober-only affair, and I will forget your address and eat all the evidence on November 1st.

I do also have a proper mailing list, which obeys all the GDPR rules. That gets used for exciting news like new stories published in real magazines, so please do sign up to that if you’d like to hear such things!

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October 1st: All Right Noooooooow

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Close up of purple-blue berries, against a background of red stalks and green leaves. In dark blue type across the image: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 1 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

All Right Noooooooow

She looked him in the eye: it was make or break time.

"You might have noticed I don't usually come out at full moon."

He reached for his pint. "Why, are you a werewolf?"

"I prefer wyfwolf. Werewolf is a gendered term..."

"You think you're a werewolf? Furry paws, howling at the moon?

"Please, listen. Seriously. I'm a wyfwolf, and..."

He turned around. "Hey, Barry! Caroline's a werewolf!"

"Does she like it doggy-style once a month?" yelled his mate.

They were still laughing when they left the pub. A disappointed grey shape slipped from behind the smokers' shelter, snarling quietly.

Hat-tip to Helen Zaltzmann, of The Allusionist podcast, for informing me in a long-ago episode that the etymology of werewolf is most commonly thought to be from wer, the old English word for man. As she pointed out, there are probably some angry wyfwolves out there.

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Drabbletober 2023!

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A spray of brambles (blackberries), mostly ripe, some still pink, against a background of green leaves. In pink text in the foreground, "#DRABBLETOBER"

Last year, on something of a whim on the last day of September, I declared my intention of inventing drabbletober. By November 1st, I had slightly mixed feelings about whether it had been a worthwhile exercise or not. However, we are now back round to October, and I’m going to do it again.

So, you cry: what is #drabbletober? It’s a writing challenge, in which I attempt to write a drabble - a one-hundred word story - every day. And because I am broadly dreadful about sticking to things if no-one is checking up on me, I’ll post all the stories here.

My rules are:

  • one story of exactly one hundred words (not including the title)

  • written on the day

  • posted on my blog before the day ends - which is when I go to bed, not at midnight

In particular, the goal is to do some writing every day, so no writing spare drabbles at the weekend to get ahead in busy weeks. Obviously, if you choose to join in (and please do! #drabbletober for all your tagging needs!) then your rules are totally up to you.

If you follow this blog, then you might have noticed that there has been… a lack of action of late. Some might almost argue that it was January when I last posted. The past year has been somewhat full of brainweasels, and I have spent a lot of time feeling unable to settle down and get any writing done. I’m going to try and ease myself back in with a bite-sized quantity of writing every day.

In particular, I’m keen to remind myself that writing is fun, and that I actually enjoy doing it. And - even if it doesn’t necessarily help unstick any of my major projects - I definitely remember that writing drabbles was fun.

So, since today is October 1st… on with the drabble number 1!

The Dark of Winter

 
A view down a steep street, with higgledy-piggledy mis-matched historic buildings. In the very distance are misty hills, and a hint of sunset.
 

It’s mid-January and, in the UK, very cold. Today, the sun is valiantly trying to push through the cloud, but in general everything is quite winterish. There is a certain appeal to brisk walks through crispy frosted streets, but the smart money is largely on staying indoors, in close proximity to blankets, radiators, fires, kettles, etc.

I am sitting in a cosy little nook, on a sofa, in a hotel. A trip away with a friend fell through for a second time, and I thought: well, instead of cancelling, I shall go by myself, and have a nice little writing break with occasional outbursts of sightseeing.

Since the daily requirements of #drabbletober came to an end, I have done almost no writing. Some life-stuff got in the way, Christmas happened, my day-job kept me quite busy… I have done some odds and bits of editing, and I have sent some stories out into the world (and received a few rejections). But somehow it is more than two months since I have done anything to bring a new story into being.

That, I decided, would not do. And so this is why - despite being in an unfamiliar town - I am sitting on the sofa and not exploring. Or not exploring much. I have been for a prowl around its quirky streets, and admired its river and (from a distance) its castle. Yesterday, I restocked my supply of general-purpose greetings cards in an interesting-looking shop, and had a slightly odd conversation with the cashier about how the local vicar is an excellent barista.

This morning I gave myself a break to visit the town museum, which was a pleasantly bite-sized affair of two rooms, and I had a fun conversation with the museum’s human about pomegranates. I have definitely let myself out for meals. Breakfast this morning was yoghurt, fruit and granola with toast and marmite, and a latte. And several conversations with different members of the waiting staff about damsons, about how it’s not obvious which of yoghurt and toast-and-marmite one should eat first at breakfast, and about a walk I could do to get some good views of the town. Honestly, I’m not sure whether this place is well-set up for luring in tourists or whether everyone is just nice and inclined to chat.

Small table, with a couple of notebooks, a pencil, a pencil-case, a teapot, and a cup of tea. And my glasses case, though you'd likely not spot that.

I have with me, as you can see, all the essentials for writing.

Thus far, I have reviewed some submissions calls, and decided I don’t have any good ideas for them (yet). I started planning for a story I had outlined in my head, and realised that the entire premise doesn’t really work in the slightest. I played with a few other angles for the story, and decided to set it to one side for now. I’ve re-visited the half-story I recently found in my notebook, and decided that I still have no bloody idea where it was going. (Note to past-me: outlines are useful for more than one thing, you know!)

However, I have also actually cajoled some words into lining up into sentences. I don’t know how many words, because I am writing in a notebook with a pencil, and thus counting words is a massive faff. Probably not enough words, not yet, but it’s only mid-afternoon.

And I have, as you know, written a blog post.

Words are happening.

Is it necessary to take oneself away to a hotel in a strange town to make writing happen? Of course not (which is just as well, really). Would I have got more written had I stayed at home? Possibly not - I wouldn’t have had museums to visit, but I would have found a whole bunch of odd jobs that needed doing. Plus I would have been grumpy about the trip I’d been looking forward to having been cancelled. As it is, I’m having a nice time, and words are happening. I’ll take that!

Finally, for those who enjoy a follow-up: after I sent my rewritten story to Charlie, it was indeed rejected for a second time. Although, again, with a generous amount of feedback. However, the story has just received a hold notice from another very exciting market (meaning that the first-round readers liked it, and have sent it a step up the chain towards the big decision-making editor at the top). So perhaps all is not lost!

The Terror of the Send Button

This afternoon I pressed send on an email, dispatching a story down the Intertubes to a magazine editor. There is nothing unusual about this - I do it all the time. However, it’s taken me several days to summon the courage to send this one.

Let us pretend that the magazine is called Great Stories, and that the editor is called Charlie. I’m a huge fan of Great Stories, and always look forward eagerly to their new editions. They’ve published some of my favourite stories in recent years, and have a reputation for championing both new and minority authors.

Earlier this year, Great Stories had a themed call and I thought: oooh. This story that is lurking around in a half-finished state might suit that. Well, if you looked at it kind of sideways and thought about the theme imaginatively, it might. And they did say they were open to all creative interpretations of the theme. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, eh? I dug the story out, polished it up and pruned it down, and sent it off to seek its fortune.

Spoilers: it wasn’t accepted. However, the rejection came with a personal response from Charlie, who explained that they’d thought hard about whether or not to take it, but that they felt it wasn’t quite as good as it could be. They provided multiple pages of feedback and ideas, and suggested that - if I felt like making changes - I could re-submit a revised version.

Now, I’m aware that some people hate unsolicited feedback. I don’t. I love it, especially when it is constructive and interesting. I also assume that Charlie, who has been editing a well-respected magazine for years, knows what they’re talking about. If they say this would make for a better story, then I feel that is at least worth investigating.

I investigated. I scribbled. I wrote vaguely incomprehensible notes on the odd-shaped bits of paper you end up with after buying and cutting out print-at-home postage in the UK (my house is full of said odd-shaped bits of paper). And I inched towards a new draft. Towards a thing that might be a finished version 2.

Now, Charlie having said they're willing to read a revised version is absolutely no guarantee of anything. In all likelihood, the story will come back with a “nah, still not right for Great Stories”. But it feels like a chance. A single, mess-it-up-and-you've-missed-it chance.

And thereby hangs the terror. Have I made the story as good as it can be? Should I have done more? Followed Charlie's feedback more literally? Sending it too soon could mean blowing that chance

I “finished” my rewrite earlier this week, started drafting an email, then wussed out. Did I feel like the story was now perfect?

Nope.

Today, I read it through again. Tinkered with a few words. Decided that the word “distinctive” would look better with a c in it. Agonised a bit more about everything.

And hit send.