I just sent in my story for the annual Independent Bookworm Advent Calendar. I decided to go with “funny” this year, because I don’t have much “heartfelt” left in me, right now.
And I did manage to find an idea. And it was the kind of idea that I was chuckling over the entire time I walked home, so I have the sense that it has some mileage left in it. (Home is about three miles, so at least that much.)
So, I got home, and I started writing, and that’s when it stopped being funny.
Or maybe, I just stopped being in the mood for that brand of humor.
Either way, the doubts kicked in.
A thousand words of “funny.” Wow, that’s a lot. And I do have an off-beat kind of sense of humor. And, quite frankly, between a long day at work, and a long walk home, I was really just too grouchy to tell whether anything was funny or not.
I went to bed.
Thought about it.
Sent it in, anyway. (I did send a note with it, saying I’d send something else, if it’s not up to snuff.)
I’m still not as confident about the piece as I was, when I first came up with the idea.
Idea’s great. Or maybe not. Or possibly, I should be in insurance sales, and not a writer in the first place. At any rate, there we go. One holiday-themed, semi-funny, worst-gift-ever type story.
I’ll be checking my email with great trepidation in the morning.
Maybe I should have sent something with elves.