Chekhov’s Oeuvre

I’ve always wanted to use that word. Ooh-vrah. (If you go to the dictionary.com definition of that word, the lady pronouncing it sounds like she might be doing something else, if you know what I mean.)

Achnywhoo, Chekhov, a source of constant surprise for me, is known for his short stories — more because he could never finish a novel to save his life* — and plays, but I like the former better. There’s only so many breaking strings that you can hear before you just want to get to the gun part last act. Amirite?

I’ve decided to try my hand at some short stories. Mind you, I haven’t written anything less than 10 pages since I was 10 myself, still waiting for my letter from Hogwarts to come in the mail. Since that never happened, I shut myself into the basement and started writing novels. Not short stories, but novels. I never looked back. *80s power ballad*

Which is what my notes from last post were all about. As it is, I’m not trying to plan anything out or make anything perfect. I don’t even really know what’s going to happen after the line, “No, this is what we get for lying about what we saw.” I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THEY SAW. It’s exciting.

*Too soon?

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