I’m working on a short story I planned and started nearly twenty years ago. As originally conceived, it was supposed to be a novel, but I gave up on it several times.
So every word I add is both so much more and so much less than I feel it ought to be…
The story exists now! But it will never be the novel I spent years planning.
A complete short story is so much better than an abandoned document. But also just a shadow of what I had imagined.
So much more and so much less, at the same time.