I can’t write a novel. Think what you want about that, but I can’t.
That’s not the same as saying I won’t though, because I probably will, eventually.
See, one of my biggest shortcomings in terms of writing a full length a book is, how the hell do I stick with one story that long, flesh it out that much, and keep on it ’till it’s finished. The answer is, I don’t. I write little snapshots of a story, bits and pieces, mostly for the fun of it (and don’t mistake that to mean I don’t take them seriously; I take pleasure very seriously). If I keep doing it…
It seems as though one of these stories will grow to the length of a book.
Unless something big changes in the way I tick, the way I do things, the way I grapple with life in general, which isn’t very likely. In my experience, people don’t truly change. Superficially, maybe, but not really. Given that, the only way I’m likely to produce a full length novel is if (or when) one of my stories grows long enough to deserve being called one.
I started thinking about this because the first few flash fiction parts of a story have, in a sense, evolved into an almost finished chapter. That is, if I look at it with the long view in mind, and factor in that I seem to keep returning to it with new ideas to add on. Few of them have been published so far, but I think the “fade to black” portion of the first part is starting to come together nicely.
So is the beginning of the next part.
Who knows… in time, maybe it will have grown into a novel.
Given my process, my approach to writing, a case could be made that it’s inevitable.