THUD.
Just finished a pro story that WOULD NOT DIE OMG. I cannot write short stories. Anyone who’s witnessed any of my fanfiction should be hilariously aware I cannot write short stories. My first novel was 200,000 words, FFS, of course I can’t. Masked Ball was supposed to be 4000 words and is 31,000. This was supposed to be 5,000 and is 10,500. I just hope they actually PRINT it.
Writing. The only career in which you have to apologise for doing twice as much work for free.
Now I will be lying on the floor and drinking and maybe emailing people and replying to comments. (Thank you, everyone who’s commented/kudos’d Masked Ball!)
Still, if I do two more of these things, I maybe have a collection. But first, I have a week to somehow do all the editing on the book and write a lecture because it would be so nice to, for once in my LIFE go on holiday and not bring any work with me.
Meanwhile...
My mother on the phone to Little Waidbrother: Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh DEAR!
Me: What? What?
My mother: Tell Waid about it, she might want to put it in a novel.
Me: Yes! I might want to put it in a novel!
Little Waidbrother: YES, HAND ME OVER I WILL TELL HER.
Me, on the phone to Little Waidbrother: Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh DEAR!
My little brother has hero-worshipped Middle Waidbrother for twenty-seven years. Middle Brother is five years older, 6’5, extremely handsome, fights crime with his brain (YES REALLY!) and now has a lovely bride to be, a little boy, and a sick father in law he helps take care of. So he is legitimately quite impressive.
Little Brother was always the slightly irresponsible, feckless, unfocused one, who went off the rails quite badly and scared us all when he was a teenager. But he has buckets of charm and musical ability and has pulled himself together pretty nicely, and he’s very geeky, and he and I have always been pretty close despite the seven year age gap.
Middle Brother took Little Brother on his stag weekend in Bratislava and killd Little Brother’s respect for him stone dead. Murdered it. Dismembered it. I really don’t think it will ever quite come back. It is kind of terriblawesome.
Little Brother: [Whose thousand-yard stare can be heard down the phone] They kept making each other drink till they vomited and then keep drinking. Down pints in one go. Over and over again. Why do you do that, what is the point of that, why. I’ve thrown up before from drinking too much but I didn’t SET OUT to do that. They ganged up on me when I didn’t want to drink any more. They all walked around with no clothes on...
Me: Oh wow, it’s like every stereotype about boys I never believed was true.
Little Brother: They went to the loo with the door open. They’re deaf, so they can’t hear the sounds. I’ve seen more of my brother’s penis this weekend than I ever needed to see.
Me: OH MY GOD YOU POOR BABY! [I was not mocking him, I was appalled at Middle Brother and wanted to wrap MY POOR WRONGED TINY SURPRISINGLY CIVILISED BABY BROTHER up in a blanket and give him cocoa]. But... Middle Brother’s always so responsible!
Little Brother: *scoffs* I had to stop him getting arrested by the Slovakian police. I had to give him my shirt because he was wearing only a mankini. I had to carry him home [he is six inches shorter]. Twice. He ended up in a pink Power Ranger costume, being sick into a bag. I had to put him on the plane, telling him “just act normal, for twenty more seconds,” and him going “I can’t, I can’t, I’m fucked, I can’t.” It was terrible. Terrible. Terrible. Civilised! He is a little boy. I feel so much more grown up.
It’s pretty much a short story right there; a young man comes of age but his view of his idolised brother will never be the same...
The sequel was that while Little Waidbrother had evidently assumed Middle Waidbrother was too committed to his course/drunk to care what Little Waidbrother thought of him, when Dad went to see him a few days later he found a still-hungover young father painfully conscious his little brother heavily disapproved of him. And talking about never doing it again and maybe getting new friends. As well he might, though I am afraid the horse has bolted. I would hate to be disapproved of by LIttle Waidbrother so hard, and he never even hero-worshipped me in the first place.
I am so sorry for/to the people of Bratislava.