My problem with writing is that I cannot keep it brief. My words overflow and tumble over each other as they escape the crowded mess in my brain, splattering like roadkill all over the page. I hate editing, hate reading it back and being drawn into the angst-ridden world of my characters, unable to find my out, and so the short stories I attempt to cut back invariably end up the precursor to novels. I managed to write a short story day before yesterday and kept (hurrah!) to the word limit. Okay, I admit I had to go back and delete at least 6 paragraphs; it was hard but I have to admit they were superfluous and added very little depth to the story. Short stories need to be punchy, like cartoon strips: I kept repeating that to myself every few sentences and lo and behold I have a rather strange, creepy story. I wrote it, by the way, for a competition. Once the winners are announced I may blog it.
Also this weekend my daughter had several of her friends round for a birthday party. My husband and I drove them into town and let them loose in a clothes shop with a handful of cash with orders to ‘buy cheap, cheerful, outlandish’. We then returned home and the girls held a fashion show while we cooked dinner; birthday cake, etc was followed by Eurovision! That flash mob was fabulous and I want to be in one! We left the girls to their soirée – all of them slept in the sitting room. You do not want to know what the sitting room, play room and my daughter’s room looked like. Let’s just say I’m glad we had the dog in our en-suite!