I didn't write anything new (anything that I finished, I mean) from November 2005 to January 2006. That's a long time. I was just revising old things. I hate revision, it is a process of diminishing returns in terms of the pleasure I get.
Lately however, I have written a couple new stories. One begins like this.
On the same page in the same story, which is called "Mammals," there's this.
This story is brand new. It hasn't been revised except for perhaps ten or fifteen sentences. I hope it gets published. But it takes a long time for anything to get accepted; by the time it gets placed somewhere, I will probably just associate the story with rejection and resentment. I want it to get accepted by the New York Tyrant.
I'm excited about this story. It's short, but it includes three things I've wanted to put in a story for a long time.
It also has a dog. I like dogs, particularly huge, woolly-mammoth-like dogs (though if such a dog had a human equivalent, I probably would hate & avoid that person) that look more like people in dog suits than actual canines. I have a thin scar on my face about an inch and a half long that a dog gave me when I was five. You have to look uncomfortably close to notice it.
In the first novel I wrote, the main character just finds his dog ripped in half one day, and he never finds out what happened to it. He simply finds his dog in two pieces.