I’m half of the mind to write something serious. Not here. No. Yesterday’s foray into bleakness is about as serious as I’d like to venture here. I’m still feeling a bit guilty about that one. Hardly inspiring, it was.
Anyhow, back to the opening point. Serious fiction has always intrigued me, taunted me even. When you’ve traversed as many literature courses as I have over the years, the “I wonder if I could do that too?” has inevitably nibbled at me.
Now, as I sit in limbo for the next few weeks (The Hushing Days edits a January reality now), the question has popped up again.
Could I do it?
Could I sell it?
Iffy, at best.
But isn’t “iffy” miles and miles above the firm “no” I would have given six years ago before I’d sold a single word?
Maybe “iffy” is as good as it’s ever going to get?
Perhaps, after The Hushing Days finds a home, I should give the serious fiction thing a go?
Oh, who knows.
Who the heck knows.