A bit of both right now I think.
Having said that, t’garret is as tidy as it’s ever been, so any entropy must be purely internal (if such a thing is possible). As well as ticking off ‘Tidy Stuff’ from my mental ‘to do’ list, I can now check off the equally vague bullet point labelled ‘Short Stories’. Well, sort of. I’ve revised and sent off a few, and dashed off one new ‘short short’ – which my ever perceptive crit group quite rightly pointed out was an ill-thought out bit of fluff (they were a lot more polite than that, but that’s what it boils down to). The more major short story that’s been taking up headspace for the best part of the month looks unlikely to get itself written in the form I originally intended, as my researches have revealed a fundamental flaw in the underlying science. It might come back in another form later, or it might not. For now, I need to drop it, or I’ll just end up killing the idea forever.
All of which means that I should turn my attention back to novel-writing. No, not just should: I want to. But which novel? There are two contenders, and they are very different beasts. Though one of them is at least generating occasional scribbled notes (an important part of the process) that’s all I’m managing so far, and my continuing state of uncertainty means I’m not sure that’s the book I should be concentrating on. Until my waveform collapses, I foresee more afternoons like this, where very little actual writing gets done.
On the plus side, my ‘to read’ pile looks very attractive: perhaps the best strategy for the immediate future is to spend a couple of hours trying (and possibly failing) to write each day, then have a five to ten minute wallow in guilt and self-loathing, and then go and read a good book. It’s a plan.