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A writer’s identity crisis.

So. I’ve written a short story.

This is truly unnerving. I’m a playwright. I’ve been a playwright since…well, since I was five really, before I even knew what theatre was. I act out stories, I hear that people actually DO that, so obviously, I’m a playwright! This is what I am.

And there are plenty of amazing writers out there who have written…everything. But not ME. I took creative writing courses in fiction while I was in university because I loved writing, I wanted to see if I had a consistent knack for fiction, and…my university didn’t offer any playwriting courses unless you were IN drama. The fiction I wrote was not consistent. Some cool ideas, tepid execution, nothing earth-shattering. I haven’t written any fiction of any kind since 1995. I’m a playwright, I’m good at plays. I also come up with ideas which in miraculous circumstances could be movies. That’s fine, films are drama too. But I write PLAYS. I was GOOD WITH THIS.

And now, recently, I’ve been coming up with ideas that can be nothing but prose. I ended up writing out this short story longhand because it wouldn’t leave me alone, my back was bothering me so I couldn’t carry my Macbook, and it had to come out somehow.

And what’s really disturbing is it appears to be quite good. I’m happy with it. I’ve shown it to two fellow writers who would not flatter me, and they liked it.

So what the hell do I DO with it?? All of my research into writing submissions has gone into drama for YEARS. Where the hell do I submit a short story? Apparently literary journals and magazines still exist, in some form. Or do I submit it online? Maybe it’s actually tripe. My first short story in 18 years (oh God) can’t possibly be any good, CAN it?

Bloody. Hell.

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