I never made it to the print shop.

Self: Oh. My. God. That story is amazing. I just sat here for three hours writing this short story. This is a pretty damn good story, I think. And look, I have nine more ideas!

Myself: Well, I think it's way over the top. I know we like melodrama, but come on...

Self: Shut up. It's perfect. Well, sort of perfect. It's okay. Damn it, maybe it is too much. Is it too much?

Myself: By the way, we were supposed to go to the print shop today. Now we can't go, it's too late. And we're on call tomorrow.

Self: Shut up.

Myself: Do you even know where you could submit this to get it published? Magazines? Anything?You don't, do you.

Self: I hate you.

I can't believe I wrote a short story. I severely dislike writing short stories. I'm not good at it. Short stories are too....SHORT. They resolve too quickly. But if I can get some short stories published I might have a better chance getting a book published.

And I was whinging to myself this morning that maybe we could do what my husband told me to try, taking out a piece of my book and expanding it. I thought "But there's nothing there that's really a story with a beginning, middle, and end that can resolve quickly enough to be a short story. There's too much interconnection."

'Cause that's how I roll, with connections.

Also, I didn't want to give out snippets of my actual book. I'm very protective of it. I want it published all at once.

In the story.

And then my Muse threw something at me (I think it was a rock. A little rock.) and I sat down and wrote for three hours.

I have a full first draft of a story plus several really good ideas for others and a few that may not work but sound good. Ten stories in all.

Guess I'm going to the book store after my last day at work on Sunday to look for magazines that publish fantasy stories.