Good Times, Terrible Times

I'm trying to think just how many stories I've killed this year.  A few months ago, there was the alien invasion novel that I'd spent a few years on.  A few months after that was one about astronauts exploring a distant planet.  And about a month ago, I started a story about a kid raising himself in a zombie apocalypse; that one died a few days ago.

I don't admit this with pride.  It sucks putting down a story.  Some of these, like the invasion story, grew beyond the original conceit.  Others I felt weren't too different from what was already out there.  The one about the kid didn't feel any different than The Walking Dead: hordes of zombies, empty cities in ruins, etc.

I guess the "blind" is the best word to describe my week; it feels like I'm groping around blindly looking for that story that feels just right.  I could probably fit in among a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters.