Countless started and abandoned half molded thoughts. Trains that leave the station before I've been able to make sense of them. Perhaps it is my filter. Apprehensive to let anything fly here. The promise that someone might stumble upon these other then me.
Makes me wonder how writes do it. How do they continually come back to the same piece of work. So often I find myself in another place then where I was the last time I sat down. Perhaps when you are "in" novel or swimming in research it is easier. There is some central gavitational pull, something to focus on. Although I get the impression that writing is work. The narrative painful in it's realization.
Seems a bit strange that creativity is so agonizing in its actualization... or perhaps it's just me.
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