One of the good things about an enforced deadline for #twentythirteen was the need to keep finding characters and a way to express their stories.
Another was just the really practical thing of letting go: letting go of whether the story was good enough that I would consider publishing it under normal circumstances. That was quite liberating: it meant that inevitably there were hits and misses.
Probably inevitably there were more misses than hits. Most of them wouldn’t have seen the light of day under usual conditions. They seemed to happen most often when I needed to edit down quite aggressively, or was attempting a more lyrical style than I’m used to, or that wouldn’t really fit the formal constraints. Stories eight, four, three and one feel like exemplary failures.
The personal hits on the other hand all felt self-contained, pebble-like. There was no or almost no editing involved, and I think if I’d added much more to them, I would have broken them in some way. Stories six, nine, ten, twelve, thirteen and seventeen in particular all had redeemable qualities.