Tag Archives: fiction

You’re invited…

In the midst of the chaos that was April, May and June for me, I told myself I wasn’t writing because I had no time, and the few spare moments I found were instantly dedicated to – forgive me for saying it – more important things like bathing and eating.  Does this make me less of an artist?  Probably.  I have known many who suffer far more than I for their work.

Summer came and other things seemed to get in the way…always something taking precedence over a post.  But, as a fellow blogger recently noted, there’s really no reason to write about nothing at all.  What boring blogging that makes for!  Somehow there seemed to be this space before in which I was able to put life’s lessons into the confines of chapter-like theses – but then life was a little more interesting then, and for now it does feel as though we’ve pressed pause to get up and go to the bathroom, refill our wine glasses and figure out a reasonably viable retirement plan.

Alas, when life enters its boring bits, a respectable writer puts on her fiction hat, and I have – it’s only that I’m not ready to wear that particular lid on the mean streets of the Interweb just yet.  I have, however, decided to unearth some fiction and poetry I’ve written over the last year.  To that end, I’ve done the very grown-up thing that is buying the url of my own name, and creating a website specifically for that purpose.

Ladies and gents, I officially present annhalsig.com, my nakedest contribution to the world of writing (because my fiction is scantily clad, indeed).  This is not easy by any stretch of the imagination…I feel tremendously vulnerable and all that jazz, but there’s a deep sense of emptiness that goes with writing something just to save it in a Dropbox folder for ever and ever amen.

The site will function like this:  I will post a new short or poem every week or 10 days or so, and if you subscribe you’ll get notification thereof.  I’ll also keep a running log of my shorts and poems on different pages of the site (pop over and have a look and you’ll get my drift) for easy reference or catching up (I’m looking at you, Antonia).  If you love my work, hooray!  Happy reading!  If you think it’s terrible, just think of all the delicious schadenfreude you’ll amass within a measly matter of minutes!  Hooray again!

I’ve already published a piece that could potentially enliven your morning cuppa, or bring world peace.  We simply cannot know until you’ve read it.

As always, thanks for reading me…I’m looking forward to some familiar faces at annhalsig.com!

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Plan-schman.

There is always, always a plan.  Even when I try to let life lead, there is always a plan.  Even when I don’t know exactly what the outcome will be, there are a number of options.  Like the doors on a gameshow, I expect the outcome to my big life decisions to fall within the confines of one of them, or some combination of the lot.  This time has been very different.

When the idea to write for a living came along, it was as though, for a moment, I suddenly had sea legs.  Is that even legal?  Surely I’m not one of the beautiful people.  I’m not someone who gets to spend her days creating.  Surely my mind isn’t independent enough, I’m not relentless enough, and after all, who on Earth wants to read what I’ve got to write?

Alas, I’m over a year into this endeavor and I can say that, without a doubt, I’ve not yet figured out the answers to any of those questions, or calmed any of those doubts (with the exception of that question on legality.  Apparently it is.  You heard it here first, beloved readers).

Don’t get me wrong – this post is not some big fishing festival – you read me, ergo, I’m gonna go ahead and assume you think I’m wonderful, either because of my uncanny ability to whittle words or because you just love me from way back.  I’ll take either one.  As to the editors I’ve contacted, the feedback has been…limited.  I’ve sold a few articles, I’ve written several more for free, and I keep on keeping on.  But there has been more than a little hubris along the way.

See, the first thought was this:

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On perseverance

I’ve just clicked “send” on an email to a Canadian magazine that prints all sorts of (quite good) artsy-fartsy stuff like poetry and paintings and short stories.  Attached to my email was a Word document containing a brief bio and two of my very own shorts.  Afterward I sat back and experienced a sensation I know all too well from when I started querying magazines for nonfiction pieces.  It’s a sort of pull on my emotions in three distinct directions: relief, overt anxiety, and the nagging sense that I’ve no business sitting back in the first place, and I need to just get over it and get onto the next thing.

The annoying bit is that the nagging is more spot on than any of it.  In all likelihood, they will read my stories and think, “Oh, that’s nice,” just as they toss them into the recycling (assuming they felt them worthy of printing off in the first place, and they have a decent sense of responsibility to our planet).  That’s the truth, the fact that it equates to tiny little daggers poking into every square millimeter of my ego notwithstanding.  And so, gentle reader, wonderful reader, reader who reads me so regularly I could kiss you but you all live way too far away for that, what’s a girl to do?  Try to find balance, that’s what. Again.

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