The problem is I can’t sustain the effort it takes to write a novel and short stories are equally a challenge. I have a form of writer’s cancer called terminal boredom. No matter how exciting the story starts, I soon grow bored with it. And I quit. No matter how involved my relationships with my characters, I soon tire of them. And I quit. What’s a writer short on creative stamina to do? I take the edge off my creative fever by writing poetry and I spin tales for gullible men and little children. Unfortunately I don’t write those tales down so they never go beyond the initial telling and are soon forgotten, which is a crying shame because some of them are really quite good if I do say so myself. So, again, what’s a writer to do?

One option is to save all my ideas for posterity. I could write it in my will that my journals of ideas be published upon my death so people can make up their own stories. But where would the fun be in that? I certainly wouldn’t be here to enjoy them or the credit I am sure to have received for their inception. So I guess I need to release them before I’m gone, before it’s too late to bask in the reflected glory of someone else’s success.

So, in this spirit of selfish generosity, I am offering up all my ideas to anyone who needs a good start. What would happen if a female cop were to pursue a female serial killer who was bent on meting out her own form of justice? What if the female cop secretly agreed with her? What kind of action could be found in an old west saloon called The Leg and Garter? What if the owner was a one-legged madam? What if…?

If! If! If! Damn that word! And damn my lazy ambition! I’m sorry, dear reader, for it seems I’ve too much egocentrism in my heart to be so forthcoming with my inspiration. I guess I’ll just have to wait for the glory to come directly to me. I guess I’ll just have to write those stories myself.