Writing those first pages, it’s hard to have faith that anyone will suspend disbelief—that the world can be made real enough for even the writer to believe in it.
Every “realistic” short story I write is a betrayal. Perversely, the short stories which seem to engage most readers are indeed these more — forgive me — realistic ones.
When/where you find yourself scared and paralyzed, either of something you are writing, of revealing yourself through the work, or for any other reason, how do you start moving again? And by moving I mean forward, not backwards, as in retreating?