|These girls are catty.|
Just got back from my lunch break.
What I do is: I cut through the alley across the street from People's Park, stop in the little co-op grocery store that hides back there, and head over to the Public Library. There's some stone benches in the northeast corner with a decent amount of shade, depending on the time of day. I camp out, eat, read, smoke a cigarette (I'll quit soon I promise—it's the one vice I have left) and attempt to unclutter the brain mess.
After finishing and sending off my entry for the Watery Grave Invitational, I quickly went back to work on two pieces I had started just prior. Alternating between the two has worked out well so far. I hit a wall on one and I jump to the other. I've been producing a decent word count on something every day without getting bogged down in my own headspace, angsting about word choice, plot points, or structure.
The problem hit yesterday. I was mulling some things over and smack-boom-bang—a brand-spanking new idea!
It's a good idea. It's clever. It offers some mileage and I think more than a little bit of originality. I'm excited about starting work on it, but I'm already working on something—two somethings—and I'm resisting the urge to jump ship and hop on board the shiny, new one.
Does this happen to you? To everybody? And if so, why?
Why are ideas like girls? You like them. You want them around even if you don't really know what to do with them. You certaintly don't understand them and, worst of all, they don't want anything to do with you until they see you with another one.