In late December I started writing a short story inspired by the process of viewing houses prior to our big move. Last night I finally nailed down a 4,300-word first draft.
The story is provisionally titled The Viewings, and I think it has a lot of promise. It's creepy, has a neat little note of marital discord at its heart, and hopefully says something interesting and insightful about change and upheaval and the strain these things can place upon a relationship.
I have a few short stories I've promised to editors, so I'm hoping this one turns out well during the editing process so I can send it somewhere - it actually fits the theme of one or two of the markets I have in mind.
Eight months to do a first draft. Fucking hell. I remember the days when I could rattle off a finished story in a fortnight. But those days, it seems, are long dead. The ideas - the good ones; the ones that deserve the time and effort it takes to develop them into tales - don't come as often as they once did either. Everything is much more hard-earned these days.