[No Title]

The hardest thing about writing for me is picking out a title for a piece. It's like pulling teeth. I agonize, choose, reject, choose again, reject, ad nauseum. Sometimes I leave it for days, hoping something inspiring comes my way. Most times I just pick the best of what I rejected. I'm not sure why this is, other than the fact that stories present themselves to me as ideas, feelings really, rather than concrete objects in my imagination. They don't really get worked out and sculpted until I've gotten my first impressions down on paper. After that it's a matter of refining. Finding a title for it means to condense all that emotion and investment down into a few words that are representative without being too revelatory. It's a pain.

Finished and sent off another story last night, but I'm starting to run out of markets. I have seven stories currently out, and many publications aren't accepting submissions at the moment. Therefore I think for the time being I am going to shift my attention back to the novel. She's been calling to me lately anyhow.

On a sad note, I lost my Pootus-cat over the weekend. My friend and companion for 15 years, he just up and left early Saturday morning. Due to his numerous health problems I can only surmise that he died somewhere near here, but I haven't been able to find him. I will miss him greatly - our conversations, his weird kitty idiosyncrasies, and his enduring love for tuna. Bye, Poot, old man. I love you, and I'll never forget you.

07 July 2008