Hmm. So apparently my resolve to ‘improve the quality and length of my stories’ resulted in… no stories at all.
I suspect the part of me that thinks I will LITERALLY DIE if I succeed at this has reasoned thusly:
‘Okay, so you insist on doing this. I make you lose it so badly you can barely do anything, and STILL you somehow continue to puke out stories. Fine. You can write 1000 stories, but only if they suck. That way, a year from now you’ll have raised maybe £100 from friends who feel sorry for you, and you won’t have learned anything or written any stories you can show to publishers or tell in front of an audience. That way, it won’t be a success and you won’t die.’
I shall be working on this over the next while.
I’m also irked because I had a long and spectacular dream last night that referenced Glee and Jane Eyre and involved me getting a tattoo of a raccoon, and I was already thinking about how I could turn it into a story while I was dreaming it, but when I woke up I realised it was way too incoherent to make a story.