I’ve been feeling stuck on the Witch Thing in Progress (see avoidance behaviour post) and so I thought “why not try writing something fun? Something silly and frothy and maybe a wee bit fanfic-ish and romantic and without world-building or pressure or magic systems or any of those things that scare you.”

I dutifully hauled out some old stuff I’d written (and no, I will not tell you what kind of fanfic it is) and looked at the bits I liked.  Artist colony, check. Founded by charismatic asshole artist (now dead), check. Musician struggling with future, check. Dying grandmother, check.  Love interest, check.

Should be easy,  I thought.  I’d need a new love interest, but that’s ok. I could set the artist colony in Banff, I’ve been there. Had a moment of disjunction realizing that main character was an older millennial (whereas I am a border boomer) but hey, throw in a reference to Tinder and the gig economy and I’m probably ok. No pressure, right?

Asked my writing group if I should include ghosts or time travel or possession or the fey.  Was told I should just include them all.

Figured I should do just a wee bit of research. Just a wee bit…  After all, at least some of the characters have a story line in the 1940s.

And then it’s back to struggling to figure out what’s plausible and gee, maybe I can’t just throw in ALL those supernatural things, and I should have something interesting happen and …

Now I’m stuck on this thing, too!

I hate writing.

(Picture above is of Paul Scheerbart, a poet, drunkard, and speculative writer in early 20th century Germany.  Heard about him on the About Buildings + Cities podcast and thought “someone ought to use this batshit stuff in a story”.  And then panicked.  But his picture is perfect.)