I have pulled the dough for the sea salt chocolate cookies out of the fridge to warm enough that it can be handled. I pulled the cover off of it and opened the sea salt simultaneously, and...this is promising, people. This is maybe not going to be a waste of my time. And anyway I'll also make an apple crisp, so if the cookies don't bake up as good as they smell, we will all console ourselves with apple crisp, reliably good.
I am trying not to take the attitude that everything must happen nownownow. Because, really? It mustn't. There's no reason why it must, and in all likelihood it won't, so taking that attitude will simply freak me out for no reason.
When I started freelancing, I kept a chart of projects that were on some burner -- front, back, in the fridge sealed in tupperware -- whatever violence you want to perform on that metaphor, really. And I would mark what I'd worked on each day, because I had known or heard of too many people who quit their day job to write and promptly got no writing done. I was determined not to be one of those. And it worked: I quit my day job to write, I actually did write, I have continued to write, so yay. But for various reasons, I stopped keeping the chart, and this week I'm sort of missing it. Not the boxes to mark off that I did work, because I know what I did. I'm just missing having my current projects listed somewhere convenient. It never stifled new projects, because I would just scribble at the bottom of the list and move on. It was just there. I feel like I've got enough balls in the air with queries and submissions and things half-revised and things half-drafted that I'm in danger of losing track of what's going on here, and just the submission log is only enough for the ones that involve other people already. So I think one of these next days, I need to sit down and get my head together on the subject of half-finished short stories: what might I do soon, what should I refile in the place where short story fragments I don't intend to finish go, what should I really think harder about. I'm not entirely sure where that'll take me. But if I was sure, I wouldn't need to do it.
Novels are big rocks in my head. Boulders. Mountains, sometimes, or icebergs. (The latest one seems to be a rapidly calving glacier.) But short stories are fairly easy to lose between the cracks of the bigger things, and some short stories are cool enough that it's worth not losing them. So.