I’ve currently got four stories out floating around and I just don’t have the desire at the moment to whip a couple others into shape. They’re close to being ready but I feel like writing lately instead of editing. So writing I am.

I started two “big” stories last fall and, to be honest, I haven’t touched either for months. One is about a murder that happened in the deep north of Manitoba in 1907 and is largely based on real-life events, and the other is about a guy trying to scrounge up enough cash to buy a one-way ticket to the moon so he can start his life over on one of the new colonies being erected. Both stories, at their individual cores, I think are good. It’s one of those things where you can explain a good story to someone in about five to ten minutes and they’ll probably say, “Sounds like a good story.” Writing it, however, is much harder.

These were the first two serious works I began after Clarion. As I’ve mentioned before, it’s not at all unique to suffer from post-Clarion writing paralysis–a number of my Clarion buddies have gone or are currently experiencing it, a full year later. It’s released it’s merciless grasp on me, but only in the last few months really. These stories–as good as I think they can be–need to be stripped down, the first one especially. I wrote kind of a lot–about 4500 words each–before pooping out. Rereading them, they’re not any fun. There’s no breathing room, everything is ratcheted down as tightly as possible. I find it difficult to reintroduce flowing prose into something that’s had the life snuffed out of it–it’s better just to start over with the same idea but less constipation. It’s a lot of work, and I fully trust something will make me interested in them again–a kernel of an idea of where the story truly lies, probably–and they’ll write themselves. Right now, they’re stubbornly refusing to be written.

So I woke up about a week ago with an idea for a new story. It’s about 70% “Seventh Victim” by Robert Sheckley, 30% “The Pure Product” by John Kessel. It’s about relationships, how we define who we are, and jumping through space in time in a game of cat-and-mouse that necessarily ends in murder. It’s 3600 words right now, written in two sittings and is about half done. It’s flowing incredibly, incredibly easily–a stark contrast to other stories I mentioned above.

After this blog gets posted, it’ll be time for sitting number three.