The next story will be perfect. It will have vibrant characters, and lapidary prose. It will not turn on me in mid-paragraph, like some kind of Medusa with sentences for hair.
The next story will have a fucking plot.
The next story will be brilliant, will rend hearts and change minds. It will be nominated for all the things, win me an agent, a book tour, and a movie deal. People will tattoo it on their bodies and graffiti it on walls. It will be taught in universities and popularly praised.
The next story will absolutely, positively, certainly not be full of adverbs. It will contain no mixed metaphors, or infelicitous phrases. By the time I write the next story, I will have figured out how to spell maintenance by some method other than trial and error.
When the next story is published, it will contain no typos.
The next story will be easy to write. Every sentence will do at least two things. The pace will never flag, my language will be both poetic and transparent, and my theme will have mythic resonance.
The next story will be emotionally real, and yet contain nothing that will cause people to make inappropriate guesses as to my past traumas or current desires.
The next story is ready, waiting, on the tip of my brain, and in the ink of my pen.
I just need to finish this one.