Hope For The One-Thousand

You know those stories where the protagonists are completely screwed, there's no way out, and then suddenly there's a shard of hope?

I gave up some months ago on actually reaching the goal this blog was named after and created for. As fast as time is passing, I'd have to finish a story every two days in order to make it, and unless I could quit my job, there was no way.

Let's review the rules once more: The goal was to write a thousand stories by the time I turn fifty years old. To qualify, a story has to be submitted to an editor in the hopes of getting it published. Length does not matter. I've counted everything from Twitter fiction to my novel. They're all equal.

I don't know why I didn't think of this before. Stepping into the shower today, I realized I could write eight hundred and fifty pieces of flash fiction in the time I had left. I've written hundreds of flash fiction stories for fun on this blog and Beware the Hairy Mango. I consider myself thoroughly competent in that regard. Hell, I could write one or more a day and submit only the best and still make my goal. I could do this! Then I got wet. All over.

Because I turned on the shower.

They may not all be flash fiction. It's very likely doing a lot of flash will buy me the time to do some longer work. I can't see the future and I know myself well, so I'm not going to say it's in the bag. I will say, though, that I'm back in the game!