Currently, I have three horses of the Apocalypse finished: The Pony, Pursuit of the Caballeros, and Nether Black Wings.
The fourth and final awaits my pen. I have the idea, I've already written the story, but I can't seem to bear it forth correctly. It's just sitting in my lap, stillborn. I would leave it alone, write something else, try again like every good writer should, but the story begs to be told.
Writing a good story should be like a forest fire; miles of trees engulfed in flames, embers burning white hot into the summer nights. The characters should tear themselves from the page and run away on their own without nudging. They should grab their independence viciously, remorselessly; the pearl clutchers and the hand wringers should leap away in fright. Finally, after all fuel is spent, the flames should die down until all ideas nearby are fried to a crisp.
Unfortunately, I had a Hindenburg. My idea caught flame and fell to the ground in a spectacular burn-out. There were a couple characters, but they waited passively, trying to get out of the way of the collapsing story. A few additional characters showed up late, but they couldn't salvage much. Afterward, the story begged to be buried deep away from prying eyes. One big mistake. One big, hot turd when no outhouse was available.
Finding inspiration is easy, but stoking the flames can be a hot mess.