The funny thing about this whole situation is that Wright may have inspired me to get off my ass and write a short story that's been floating around inside my head for a while now. It was originally inspired by that other bastion of homophobia, Fred Phelps. Trust me, the revulsion I feel for John C. Wright is nothing compared to the utter loathing I feel for Fred Phelps. It is sincere, red-tinted, chest-tightening hatred. I will cheer the day he dies. It is this hatred that, after reading an interview with one of his sons a while back, gave me the idea for this short story. The son was one of two (I think) that had escaped the Phelps cult and his stories were, quite frankly, horrifying. And let's face it, I wanted to write a revenge fantasy.
But I'm lazy, and I'm a bad procrastinator, and I didn't get around to it. Until one night, when I had nothing better to do, and I followed that link on Metaquotes. Life works in funny ways. At any rate, I've written 6, 699 words on what is currently just known as the Peregrine story, and I think I'll probably finish it today. I don't know if it's good (I haven't read it over yet). I don't know if it's publishable or if I'll even try to get it published. But I feel good for writing it, even if it goes into a drawer and is meant only for me, and possibly my Constant Reader and best friend.
And also writing-related, I submitted a short story entitled The Pusher to the British Fantasy Society's annual short story competition. I won't know if I've placed until September, but I will be. so. excited if I do. I keep telling myself that the e-mail I got from the editor confirming my submission and letting me know that he'd fixed some wonky formatting for me is a Good Sign. Right? Right?! Don't burst my bubble. This might be the kick in the ass I need.