Photo drabble. This one.
She doesn’t get paid enough for this.
“No blood at least.” Marty’s shock of pewter hair falls in his eyes as he crouches over his newspaper. “Should have seen that dealer get popped.”
She rolls the cleaning cart out onto the sidewalk. Some girl took a handful pills to disappear, and once the dull roar of chaos has faded, who gets to clean up? She does, that’s who.
She tucks her hair behind her ear. At least she’s got a job, a place of her own. She does what she has to do.
She doesn’t look in the mirror, though.
Oooh, nice, Amy. You guys are gonna get all the good ones before I get a chance to sit down and plot.
The photo drabble challenge is now closed.
This week's challenge is center.
How do I know if something should be a story or a book?
Because I got an idea yesterday...
Write it and see how long it is when you're done?
Which sounds kinda facetious, but it's the only way I know. Not that I've ever had a short story idea in my life. With me it's stand-alone vs. series.
But wouldn't that affect the timing?
Which is something I think I have a problem with already.
If it was me I'd jump right in and start writing, then see how long it was shaping up to be. Of course, I never finish anything so you probably shouldn't listen to me.
erika, I think you need to really consider the scope of the story. Do you have secondary characters who could be developed, provide a subplot? How complicated is the protagonist's conflict?
Also, remember that a novel can be a couple different lengths (although you should always be thinking at least 70,000 words, unless it's YA, and sometimes even then).
Plus? As hard as it can be to get a novel published, there are still a LOT more outlets for it than short stories, these days.
I could probably come up with things; I've been thinking about some of these characters for a while.ETA: But I have thought I was going to attempt another novel before, and those efforts have failed to gel.
Mik hated it from the first day. The center room. And it hated him back. The fake gravity buzzed in there like old fluorescent tube lighting, and smelled like burnt static. Made him sick. So he stuck to the fringes, got himself useful with insulation and wiring. So what if he'd been hired as a socializer. So what, out here? Truth was, the center room was always overcrowded, even when no one was there. Someone's left behind something right there in his face, every time, reminding him of all the other people who stopped there, every moment of every day.
