Story ideas always seem more ideal before I start actually writing them.
The story exists in a perfect, if somewhat vague, form, unbruised by my clumsy prose.
As I break it down, look closer, its imperfections become apparent. But they’re minor blemishes in what’s surely a work of art, easily covered up by the judicious application of words.
Then comes the long slog of the actual writing, and the fluctuating certainty that I’m carefully crafting a pile of poo.
I carry on writing regardless, because I can’t be sure how bad it is until I step back and look at the final form. But my mind is already wandering ahead, thinking of stories I’ve yet to write, so perfect, so much better than this drivel I’m wading through.
Wade through it I do though, trying to learn what I’ve done wrong. Lessons to be applied to my next, perfect, story.
Which of course it won’t be. But that doesn’t stop me trying to write the perfect story, even knowing it can never exist outside a dream. I just hope that every story takes me one step closer to that perfection.
All my stories are practice for the perfect story I’ll never write.