I write a lot and some of what I write gets published but a lot doesn't. Mostly that's OK. I don't dwell on the stuff that doesn't make it into print. I just move on and write something else, something new. Last year (2023) I completed four writing projects. That's one more than I set myself to do each year. One of these writing projects was accepted for publication within a week of being written; another took about six months to be accepted but it was at least accepted. Yet another is in a competition somewhere and I am waiting to hear about it before sending it off someplace else. And the fourth, I know, needs a serious rewrite; but that's OK too.
I have many novel-length works just sitting on my computer and I don't worry about that. I have no regrets about these foundered projects. Indeed I feel I'm very lucky to be published and to be read. So no regrets at all... well, except one.
Some years ago - is it really 16 years ago? - I completed a collaborative project with another writer. It was a six months long writing project, which is a lot longer than I spend on a writing project these days. I loved the experience of this collaboration. It took me to places I never would have gone on my own. This other writer loved it too. What's more, this other writer is an exceptional editor and rewriter. The work could have been astounding.
But soon after completion of the project we fell out, this writer and I, and the work got tossed into limbo. It is a work that this year would have had some significance, this year being the centenary of Franz Kafka's death. This work we completed may never ever see the light of day and, though I have come to accept that, it is nevertheless something I deeply regret. I return to the work often and every time I do I feel quietly sad and quietly heartbroken.
