I had a talk with Ange this morning about our respective futures. A deadline looms for me to return to some form of work (Centrelink or otherwise) in late July. With a potential writer-in-residence programme I’m eyeing off for 2 weeks in August, as well as wanting to hang on for grim death to my writer’s lifestyle, this deadline is a difficult one to face. It all comes down to financials.
My overwhelming preference is for Ange to sneak into Uni for second semester, while I go about winning that proverbial bread. I’m just hoping, if Harbinger doesn’t sell in the medium term, that 3 days a week at work will be sufficient for our collective survival.
With that hanging over me, I am resolved to attack short stories with gusto this coming week. I plan to churn out at least four quality stories, so I can ship them to reputable magazines and become more of a reputable person. The more sales, the better the CV, the better the CV, the more likely Harbinger gets into print, the more likely Harbinger gets into print, the more likely I remain a full time writer. One word at a time, repeat ad nauseum.
On the subject of words, I sent off Assignment 4 for my Advanced Diploma of Arts course. This assignment also happens to be the flash story I sent to Ideomancer five minutes afterwards – Practical Joke. I like the story. Ange likes the story. It’s punchy. It’s creepy. Hopefully Robert Stephenson and the editorial staff at Ideomancer will agree.
In further communications, I lashed myself to the phone and refused to relent until I had spoken to every member of my family. The plan faltered when Damien was otherwise occupied, and Mum was off on fire-fighters camp (she’s an aspiring Rural Fire Brigade Captain in NSW). I did manage to hold Stacey’s ear for quite some time. We caught up on all the goss, absconding room-mates, band performances, privacy investigations, the lunacy of planographs (the basis for a shiny, new upcoming story!) and family matters included.
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