I have a fear of literary action. I can’t move or make things happen. It’s the easiest thing in the world for me to make decisions in life. When it comes to hapless characters on dead pages, I can’t find that spark. I sit and watch two-dimensional imaginary cutouts whittle away their lives with little to show for their inaction but consternations and the lights of the unknown. I am a creature of inaction in a world of action. In life, I make things happen, I decide and—excepting certain adolescent situations, which I try to improve—I take action based on my decision. But in my stories, I don’t see the choices, I don’t decide on the answers. I watch nothing happen fast. I don’t see or combine or knit together the threads. Inaction is my curse. I miss the Marathon: at least there I tried to make things happen. I was ineffective, of course, but at least I didn’t worry about action and choices. I decided and moved forward.

Plan for it and then show it. Rewrite it with the voice, but put down the motions before you worry about how you’re saying it. I’m stuck on my story worrying about where it will go. There is a yoga class and a floating girl. There’s a protagonist who wants to float but he can’t disbelieve long enough to fly. He’s jealous of the girl’s powers. They’re stuck there. Work through it. Make it do something.