Because I am trying not to write this damn short story. Ugh. Did I say I liked writing? Did I say I was a writer? This is supposed to be fun? This is what I chose, for myself? Like, the destiny I can't avoid? Who am I kidding? Why don't I have anything to say? Why are all of my sentences so bad? Why are all the things that occur to me such leaden, bad, nonstarter ideas? Hasn't everything good already been written, by people much smarter and more tuned into the world? I could be sitting in an office with a view of the ocean, getting paid lots of money to sort out complicated legal problems, and talking by speakerphone with a sensible and capable secretary who would know where to find that letter I think I might need to reread, and even if I didn't know what I was doing I would know how to figure out what I was doing. This? I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to figure out what I'm doing. Bleh. I know I need to write and at some impossible time I'll figure out what's happening and I'll disappear into it. I remember, vaguely, that that happens. I know something will shut off and take over. But what if it doesn't, and there are just these dumb sentences and bad ideas and nothing else? Then what??
UPDATE: I think I have made progress. I know what's going to happen, I think, and to whom. And I know the story is going to leave the reader with a vague, sad, but strangely beautiful ache and longing that you can't exactly articulate, except by describing the exact image of the end of the story. Glad I decided on that. The rest should be easy.