Patches

I am becoming a paranoid wannabe writer. With all the things going on right now, it is difficult to focus on one single thing.

As I walk down the street after work, the cold wind knifing my face, story ideas pop into my head… seemingly at random.

But nothing fits together. I’m like a kid with a ten thousand piece puzzle. As more and more pieces fall out, the more the picture looks like a Ken Done drawing.

Nothing seems consistent, either. Story arcs form in my head and yet bear little resemblance to the thousands of words I have already etched out on LCD. The whole thing seems to be coming together haphazardly, and I fear that one day it’ll come out looking like one of South Australia’s roads – a coarse, undulating strip that it terribly patched from years of improper maintenance.

I get ideas down pat, I can write about them for ages, but then I get another idea. I want to start the new one as soon as I can for fear that I’ll eventually lose it, but I don’t want to neglect the pages I’ve toiled over for ages.

I don’t want to miss out either. There are just as any people like myself, who are far more talented and driven than I am… surely it’ll be a matter of time before someone gets out a novel that takes my overall message and crafts it into a paperback tapestry well beyond my wordsmithing abilities.

I need focus, I think.

Or some booze.