The story idea is quickly developing into an idea for a summer writing contest. This is fantastic, but for one thing, it's not what I'm supposed to be working on right now. I have to first finish a paper on Kubrick, and then, only then, will I have the bandwidth to devote to this flash-fiction short story about love and joyful disappointment. Unfortunately, when I sit at the writing desk it's the story that emerges in a flood of words and the paper on Kubrick becomes but a slow, agonizing, desperate trickle.
Why do I do this to myself? Clearly, I need to exert firmer control over my art.
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