So I decided to give the fiction writing thing a try again last night. Going about it slowly. I pulled out an old SF short story I wrote about a year and half ago and starting polishing it. I'll probably send it off to a magazine today, with a rejection letter expected in about six weeks or so.
Optimisim is not my strong suit.
I love the idea of writing, but the work of writing is rather tortuous. I've yet to meet a professional writer who didn't think so, even the really prolific ones who write compulsively. I suffer from the typical affliction of never believing anything I write is good enough, so I have trouble finishing projects. I'm not really all that happy with the story I'm editing now—it's got a strong voice, but the plot is a little rushed, and it lacks a certain density of ideas that good SF usually contains—but my wife says I'm simply too picky and can't see these things objectively. I'll let the magazine editors settle the issue.
In any case, I'm out of excuses for not writing, so I expect I'll start spinning something out of whole cloth very soon. I've actually got a few ideas I've been sitting on for a while—a space vampire story, and an SF retelling of the Arthurian legend—that have some potential, despite how corny they sound. I'll keep all five of my readers posted on that progress.