Right now, I am straddled between the novel and flash fiction, one foot on each as they drift apart, my flash becoming more abstract, my novel digging into the gritty reality of life as I know it, and I need to decide which way to jump because soon there’ll be that moment when I can’t stretch any more. There will be a splash, and I will sink into something. I don’t know where I will re-emerge. Beneath a mackerel sky? Two inches above a wet toilet seat? In between lovers like an unexpected itch?
I’d love to be the kind of person who skips between roses and dreams of the tender press of lip to hand but, being me, I’m more likely to end up sitting on the smear of chocolate I’ve just planted on someone else’s posh and sumptuous sofa, while staring at a hairy wart on the chin of someone old and slightly rancid. As I try not to reach over for a surreptitious pluck, I might just ask, what do they think? Should I write a novel… or more flash fiction?
That’s where I am. I’m also sitting on a big, wet Cornish rock overlooking the Atlantic.
Read Martha’s very tasty story, “no biscuits” here.