I’m trying to think just how many stories I’ve killed this year. A few months ago, there was the alien invasion novel that I’d spent a few years on. A few months after that was one about astronauts exploring a distant planet. And about a month ago, I started a story about a kid raising himself in a zombie apocalypse; that one died a few days ago.
I don’t admit this with pride. It sucks putting down a story. Some of these, like the invasion story, grew beyond the original conceit. Others I felt weren’t too different from what was already out there. The one about the kid didn’t feel any different than The Walking Dead: hordes of zombies, empty cities in ruins, etc.
I guess the “blind” is the best word to describe my week; it feels like I’m groping around blindly looking for that story that feels just right. I could probably fit in among a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters.