The life cycle of an idea

They just come out, unwanted and unbidden, in the thousands, if not millions. Every few minutes there's another one of the little bastards. Like the Richard Madoc bloke.



But unlike him, I never got to write even a single good novel before this started, and I never did anything to warrant a dream-god laying a curse on me.

...Did I?

And sometimes one sticks for a little longer. Nags at me and bothers me and takes up space and eats up all the other little ideas. I feel at peace for a moment. I feel like I have a purpose again. Almost without realizing, I start building it up. Or maybe it builds itself. I don't even know.

I think it could make for a blog post. Something to idly muse about, jot down some random ramblings, as I do right now.

Then it grows, and I think it could make for an actual story. I think people might want to read it. I even think I could sell it.

Then it grows too much and I start to see the cracks. I see the bloat, the fat and water and hot air, with no muscle, no substance. The idea could not sustain anything more, after all: now it's a heart that beats hot and heavy and shriveled to sustain what it can not.

And most importantly, the big question: who would ever care?

I've had better ideas, after all. I've written entire stories about them, whole books. And no one cared about those either. Why should this be different? How can that which is worse do better than the better?



Then it collapses. It dies. It goes away. I can do nothing with it anymore. Not a story, not a blog post, not even talk about it to friends. It's gone.

Then, repeat.

Hey, I did get a blog post about it. A blog post about blog posts. I guess that's better than nothing.