I've got a story in the latet CSFG anthology Outcast. It's a simple fairytale - nothing more, nothing less, which I expect will sink into the abyss with little notice. That's - mostly - okay because it's a story I wrote with an audience of one in mind - my daughter. She's almost four now and the date I've handwritten on the first draft in my files is February 27, 2002 - a few months before she was born.

I hadn't intended to write a story for her before she was born but then I read a line in Neil Gaiman's American Gods that got me thinking. The Little Wooden Flute tells the story of a little girl who lives a harsh life in a cold land. Her only joy is to play music on the little wooden flute given to her by her grandmother before she died. But complications arise - don't they always - and make her life difficult. Hell, if you wanna know more than that, go read the goddam thing.

But the plot isn't important. What is important is that I wrote the story for my daughter and now she won't let me read it to her. We have a very settled night-time ritual when she stays with me, which includes dinner, some television, a bath, some reading in bed then lights out. So I was very excited when I finally held a copy of Outcast in my hands because it meant I could read it to my daughter. For some reason I'd decided it had to wait until it was published somewhere. But will she let me read it to her? No.

The first try went something like this:
Me: Would you like Daddy to read you the special story he wrote for you, tonight?
Daughter: No
Me: Please!
Daughter: No
Me, Okay, what should I read you then.
Daughter: The Red Tree 
Me: Damn you Shaun Tan, those terrible fates really are inevitable, aren't they?

I then proceeded to read The Red Tree, which took about three minutes including red leaf spotting time. When I finished I thought I'd try again.

Me: How about we read something else.
Daughter: Yes please.
Me: How about the special story I wrote just for you?
Daughter: No. I want to read Gordon (Gordon's got a Snookie)!

I did ponder for a few moments tying her to the bed and forcing her to listen. But then I remembered how much I hated being forced to read A Farewell to Arms in year 11. Forced reading is a bad thing.

So here I have an interesting little fairytale that will garner no critical attention, nor win any awards and I can't even convince, outwit or bribe my young daughter into reading it to her.

Writing; it's a harsh life indeed.