Every so often I get overwhelmed by the prospect of writing a book.

I’m at one of those stages right now. I have about twenty half-baked ideas for stories jostling around in my head and I can’t pick one.

Which one has legs? Which one is worth several months of research and deep thought, followed by months of late nights and wrestling with plot holes and cursing and elation and guilt and joy?

I don’t know.

I wouldn’t call this writer’s block. I’d call it writer’s custard. It...