Seriously, though, despite my juvenile attempts at humor in the title to this post, this is a problem for me worthy of a “little blue pill” of its own.
I love to write–hoo, boy, do I ever. I love words: the variety, the nuances in meaning, word play, double entendres, the power of them. Words can wound or heal, carry you to exquisite heights or dash you against the proverbial rocks; they communicate great beauty in the most poetic of ways, or cut to the quick in their brevity. Oh, writing–wielding those little daggers–is extremely satisfying.
Except I am incapable of finishing anything I start. I don’t know why that is…being easily distracted? losing the fire of inspiration once the trigger-thought is put down? Both are true. Yet, I still find the original ideas percolating in my head–snippets of lives, glimpses of events in a character’s history, all just simmering in my brain, but never coming to use. It’s frustrating. I keep telling myself, “This time, I’ll plot out the story first. Get the beginning, the conflict, the resolution–all of it–sketched out before I start. Then I won’t let it fall to the wayside!” Of course, I never get around to doing that, either.
It’s very disheartening to have a dream that is self-sabotaged. I know I’m not a great writer–I lack the ingenuity to warrant anything more than “okay”–but I think I’m capable of something worthwhile. I only wish I could sit down, focus, and get some of these ideas (and I have several) completed.