I'm at Earthen Ales for my weekly, after-work writing sesh. It's 5:51 pm, and I honestly didn't plan on writing a Substack post today. If so, I would have been done with the thing by now.
Today was straight bonkers at work. I haven't had a day like this in Illuvatar knows how long, so I almost welcomed the cursed thing. I do thrive in the panic of the moment, and today I got to thrive. I did not have time for a true lunch break, and that has been my sacred reading time for years now, so when I arrived at Earthen, I decided that I needed to allow myself some time to unwind before jumping back into any sort of self-imposed grind.
I picked up my book. It turned out I was at the 90% mark (fuck Bezos but I like my Kindle) so I decided to finish it. Just like the last book in the series, it turned out to be a rather Scooby Doo ending and I decided that instead of starting the third book without the courage to quit once I got underway, I would quit now. These books just aren't that good, and I've got plenty of stuff on my list, including another forty-some Stephen King books (there he is again!), so I'm choosing to move on.
When I finished it, I thought about my options: write a Substack post or continue my latest story?
I ended up choosing the story. I haven't written something new in ages, and my buddy, my pal, Chad (last name uncertain) and his gal (Jamie A.K.A. Jame) were at the Urgent Care last night, and I needed to see them out of the place. Nobody else was going to.
This time, I decided to write about a young-ish pothead, and a hardcore one at that. After all, I can only write about middle-aged dads and men for so long. My last novel (the one that I'm still dying to read) is about a woman for a change, and my last short story was written about a thirteen-year-old, so I've been breaking the mold for a bit but still, I was cognizant of the fact that I needed to keep the trend going.
As always, I have a rough idea of where I'm working towards, but that’s about it. In fact, plot happens to be the thing I most disliked about the last few books I read. Everything that happened seemed to drive towards the next plot point. I'm not used to this approach. Stephen King almost never does that (this Where's Waldo schtick is getting more predictable by the post), and I love that. I want the organisity of things! The off-the-cuffardness. (Yes, I made those words up.) These are people we are talking about, not assemblages of words!
Anyway, Chad Nolastname got himself into a real bind with his latest puff of weed, and now I’ve effectively set the story up. We are on to the real shit I want to write about: THE SIMULATION.
And when I got to that point at 5:45 tonight, I realized I couldn't start another new section right then. Instead, I felt an overwhelming urge to write a Substack post. I know there are no rules on this stuff, and I know none of you are clamoring for the next Andrew Thomas newsletter, but it's been a bit (has it?), and I felt I needed to get something out there.
In other news, I was in my office taking notes on
’s Zettelkasten book again this week when Jenelle and Clyde came in. Jenelle looked out the window and commented that the streetlight in the alley turned on (or off, I can't remember) when she looked at it. Clyde looked shortly after, and it did the opposite of whatever it did before, and one of them (again, I can't remember) said something about it being haunted.And that's the reason I don't remember the specifics. Because that comment—that the light might be haunted—grabbed me so hard. I turned away from my work and stared at them.
"Haunted lights," I said. (I didn't, this has fully veered into novelisation at this point.) "Damn that's an idea." (Again, I'm capturing a vibe here.)
That idea, though…how does a light become haunted? What happens once it is?
Hours later, the kids were in bed on the other side of the wall, and I was standing in my office after Jenelle and I had watched two (gasp, two?!) episodes of Shrinking, and it hit me all at once. I said goodnight to her and sat down to bang out the shortest story I've ever written.
One about a haunted light.
I was in bed next to her less than fifteen minutes later, and man, I had written a story between Shrinking and bed! That felt good. The story needs a title, the usual editorial work, and polish, but I really like it.
But damn, is it short!
And immediately, I wanted to share it with you all.
And immediately, I worried that if I did, I would miss out on the opportunity to publish it elsewhere and gain some sort of traction or notoriety or breakthrough.
Honestly, I'm sick of worrying about that. The hassle of finding places that might want short stories, and then submitting, and then waiting, and then getting rejected...It's not even the rejection I fear; it's all the seemingly pointless work leading up to it.
But still, I worry.
So that brings me to my final point: should I post this story here? Do you want to read it? I've only written about my life up to this point and shared very little in the way of fiction. Do you want something hot off the presses? Something that still thrums with the electricity of inspiration?
I think the overall idea has many legs beyond the two it has stood up on so far, but I’m willing to share this current version with you.
So I'll leave you with this: do you want it, this specific little story?
Ten little meager “yes” votes and I’ll do it. I don’t even know why I’m making this a poll. Probably because I’m a notoriously bad decision maker, and I’m hankering for some engagement, some interaction on these posts I make. It’s a lonely task, writing these things and sending them out into the world with no indication of whether they were well received or not.
Make the decision for me; let me know you are interested.
Just ten of you.
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