Or actually, is it Literature?
I’ve started a short story that I think will end up being submitted to the lit mags when (if) I finish it. The title is “Sons and Daughters of the Builder”, and the first paragraph (still first draft) is
Whenever people ask me if my father is God, I say no. I learned a long time ago that the true answer—“maybe”—was an opening for any number of further questions, questions I didn’t have the answers to.
I have no idea where it’s headed. Well, that’s not true; I have some ideas, but I haven’t picked a direction yet. My biggest fear is that it’ll wind up being too spec.fic. for the Literary Journals, dahling, but too lit.fic. for the SF pulps, dude.
Siding continues apace. The south wall is now blue from bottom to top again; soffits & fascia will go up tomorrow. Then the only part left to tackle will be the west wall, up above the kitchen roof. We hope to be done by the weekend.
On the other hand, Greg Knauss’s Devil’s Dictionary v2.0 defines schedule as A fairy tale with a happy ending, told by the optimistic to the ignorant. So I’m hesitant to be too firm about end dates and ETAs and et ceteras.