But not lameitudes. No, never those.
So, I guess I can't write a novel. Not easily, at least; not with the present thoughts and feelings that course through various bodily organs. My attempts to do so are constantly thwarted and reviled by the soul that stands at the keyboard. Unfinished novels abound on my hard-drive.
I've done plenty of thinking about this kind of stuff before - some of it good, some useless - and I won't again. The novel will have to come to me, next time round. For now, I'll be returning to short stories.
The advantage to this strategy is that I can engage a lot of ideas fast. It's also a lot of fun and it creates a lot of potential sales: more product, more market. The main thing, though, is that I want to keep writing - I need to keep writing - and the novels I'm attempting just don't create that imperative. I've had a blast since yesterday, working on "Oscar Coronation" - a character name I pulled directly from my own confusion regarding the New York Times' headline "Oscar Coronation for King's Speech," which I figured meant some actor featured in said movie rather than an "Oscar coronation" - and, now, a story I've long meant to work on, "Hell Patrol."
Ultimately, I still want to be a novelist; that's where it's at. But forcing things just never works.