I’m taking my own well-being into account these days. I knew I would start small, and I did.
I read short books. Crappy books. Short comic series. Standalone movies. Single season shows that got cancelled.
I wrote a haiku.
A piece of flash fiction.
A one-shot comic.
A short story, which was really more of a noir, back-twisted rant I didn’t believe in.
Weirdly, all the individual work was published. The comic is pending, because comics are collaborative, and I’m an anxious collaborator, in the sense that I’m terrified of anything beyond the script stage.
I try to remember. Little things build to bigger. Most overnight successes spent ten or more years laying groundwork.
Learning. Mastering. You don’t pick up a guitar and channel Jimi or Kim Thayil.
That shit takes time.
Piece by piece. Trying to remember, it’s not about hitting targets. No such thing as delayed gratification; the joy is found in each stage. To defer it to the end is to guarantee frustration and a fleeting moment of exultation, if we even make it that far.
Most of us will not.
Target: 800 words
Written: 631 words, novella: The Mungk