Lately, I've been putting together a modest online journal. It will feature writing in various formats, art, photography. Whatever catches my attention. If you've read my work, you know what I like; if not, congratulations on doing something more productive with your time. The submission window will be a single week from the posting of each issue. I've been getting help and material from some great people. Check back on October 15th....
As far as my own submissions go, this has been a cold two weeks in hell. Just kidding. I really don't get upset about it. I've tried to be a little more playful this month (still dark, of course, but joyful, too). The result? Last month, prior to doing this, I had ten out of seventeen pieces accepted. So far, this month? Zero. Zero out of....well, just Zero. Does this make me want to change my approach? No, because this is the mood I'm in. This is how I feel like writing at the moment. A lot of it has been SO strange, though, I haven't bothered to send it out.
I posted one piece of a series at 6S/Ning. A dark fantasy about a place where nothing lives and nothing much happens. The subjects aren't ghosts, but a brother and sister who are neither dead nor alive. Someone commented that it was sad, chilling, moody. Another, that I seemed to have had a lot fun writing it. Correct on both counts. I revelled in putting it together; but, when I wrote the final version of the main character's wish, I had tears in my eyes and had to get up from my chair. The problem--if it could even be considered a problem--appears to be that I'm writing for disparate readers at the same time, rather than focusing to achieve a single, desired effect. Cool. In a mass-schizophrenia kind of way.
"Sometimes, We Choose," by Quin Browne. It doesn't need an introduction. Set aside a few minutes and then go here and start reading:
SOMETIMES, WE CHOOSE