The idea entered my head a few days ago that I was out of story ideas. The concept mildly alarmed me–I’m only a third of the way into my present novel, and I still occasionally prod a work-in-progress short story with a mental stick. In short, I’m not terribly in need of a new idea.
But I’m working on these pieces and some days thrashing more than writing, and I started to wonder if the well was dry. Already. Washed up before I’d begun. And then today I’m reading a news article when I stumble across a bit of history and, just like my first stillborn attempt at a novel, I fashion the premise for a historical fiction story right then and there.
I am happy and sad for me.
There is, as mentioned, a half-finished historical fiction novel already consuming bits and bytes on my computer. Someday I feel I’ll go back to it, when I’m a stronger writer. While writing that first historical fiction story I felt like a third grader trying to drive a car–it was fun, but I wasn’t ready for it. So with that challenge already in the queue, do I really need another historical fiction idea, set in the same city no less?
It’s not really a question. I’m thinking of the story and I’ve got this sad grin, because I’m looking forward to writing it one day, and knowing what a challenge it’s going to be to do it.
Writers. What is wrong with us?