For C H by way of an answer

I will tell you a story about novels. For some time I wrote short and very short stories. Which thing I liked to do - idea, story, done. Next idea. I was also in a circle of people who were involved in the comic books industry. Many of them were successful to greater and lesser degrees, and most of them wanted me to be successful as well. So advice was offered and I, having never really thought about writing in terms of "success", listened.

"You need to write a novel. No one buys short stories."

The thing is- the implications of which I know now, but which didn't strike me right then - I used to give my stories away. I'd go to readings and read, or story groups and read. Sometimes people wanted copies and I'd copy them out (by hand - I had no computer yet). What I wanted was for people to enjoy the things. It seemed to be working, with people waiting for me to read, and showing up without stories of their own but wanting to see what I had made that week. It was really wonderful, and I am glad I did actually enjoy it at the time, as well as having the memories of it.

But I started writing a novel. And this was in 1994 or so. I have re-started at the 100 page mark repeatedly. It will eventually be a good story, and there are many atmospheric and lovely bits to it. I sometimes think of just assembling the fragments or de-sembling the fragments. Sometimes I think maybe it should take the form of a collage. It started on the backs of envelopes, and is in my old laptop now. I have recently re-started it with a different point of view. But it is about slaying monsters, and so is the writing of it.

There are times when I unproductively hate all the characters involved - good and bad and in-between - times when I have spots of affection for them. Some times I want to finish it, sometimes forget it. There are times when I feel I've killed my little children since the short stories are largely gone from me.