The ShortStory Redemption (Subtitle: Stephen King has a lot to answer for)

This weekend, I may have re-invented a story genre: the literary horror. Yes, I took a break from The Novel this weekend, and wrote a short story instead.

Of course, I won’t actually be able to do anything at all with this short story, as the only place to send them is to competitions (apparently publishers view adult short stories as the literary equivalent of dog turds), and last time I checked, the Katherine Mansfield Awards didn’t actually have a horror category.

I can blame two things for my weekend dalliance into pointless fun:

Firstly, The Novel. Just a few short weeks ago I was breathlessly in love with it. Where has my handsome story-Adonis gone? Suddenly its beautiful words are not spurting from my keyboard in fertile rivers, but forcing their way out in the painful drips of a syphilitic 90-year-old.

Secondly, Stephen King. The scoundrel! I innocently read a longish-short story of his on Friday evening, dreamed feverish literary-nightmares all night, and woke up on Saturday morning with a short story tapping on the inside of my eyeballs demanding to be let out.

Writing the story reminded me of a writing workshop I did some years ago, where we had to mimic the style of several famous writers and write the beginnings of a story as though we were channeling each one. It was an interesting exercise, and immensely enjoyable. One of the writers I chose was Augusten Burroughs (I’d just finished Dry), and I still remember giggling to myself as I wrote.

Stephen King, if you're reading this, (of course you are!), I'd like to send a vote of thanks your way for reminding me of something important. For the last few weeks I’d completely forgotten that writing is supposed to be fun. That fact is so easy to lose. And sometimes, like this weekend, it’s a real pleasure to recall.