It’s not writer’s block, per se. It’s just that I’m thoroughly bored with this half-conscious, fuzzy, soppy, drooling little story I ushered in off my doorstop three months ago. I’m inclined to toss it for good and begin anew.
If I spent more time with it, I believe it could be something worthwhile. But eight half-written chapters riddled with goodness and mirth and plummeting hopes no longer bat their lashes at me. We are over, I believe. At least for now. I’ll keep it, sure. To fawn over later, be driven giddy with delight over how my incompetent little eighteen-year-old-mind ever came up with such brilliance. And how I could have ever given it up.
I could crank through it, if I wanted. Piece-mill the bashed-about bits of the narrative together and toss it up into the ether. But my dialogue is sucky enough as is. I’d rather just wait and do it right.
Or rather, I should have written it when I could still roar through entire legal pads with thoughts. I should have written while the heat was in me, as Thoreau would’ve had it. By now, I’m a long-unplugged iron, striving in vain to press this shirt.
All that to say: Less airships. More ghosts. For now.