The Journal of Michael Merriam

I occurred to me what the problem might be.

You see, every night at bedtime you invade my brain, offering me the next sequence, the next scene, more story, more back story, more grounding details. More cool stuff. You keep offering me more of everything.

So of course, every night I ask, "Are you sure you're not really a novel?"

And you say, "No, Mr. Writer's brain. I'm still a novella. Really. Trust me on this. I'm a novella."

And then we keep on going, with no end in sight.

I think I've figured it out. You really are a novel, but you are afraid to tell me.

You're afraid I won't love you anymore.

Because you know that Last Car to Annwn Station is in the final rewrite stage, and you know that I've been poking at Old Blood's Fate again and I've decided there's nothing wrong with it that another draft won't fix. You know I'm a third of the way through Into This Land (the not-a-milkmaid-of-destiny novel) and that I've had Move Along Home (spear of destiny, ceremonial magicians, blind Gaius Longinus, roman witches) waiting in the wings for a long time.

You're afraid I'll slap you with the title of Novel #5, close your file, and forget you for year and years.

I won't. You're my current love among my projects. If you are a novel, that's okay. The Phantom Streetcars were supposed to be a 15,000 word novelette and look what happened there.

But if you are a novel, now would be a good time to tell me, what with us closing in on the 25,000 word mark.

It's okay. You can tell me. I'll still love you.

Fey and Mage In Need of a Title