I often found that I had ideas for stories, but by the time I had thought them out in detail they seemed to me hardly worth writing, as if I had already ‘done’ them: not because they were bad, but because they already belonged to the past and I had lost interest. My thoughts were soon stale to me. Some things I ruined by starting them too soon. Others by thinking them so intensely in my head that they were over before they began. Projects would change in a second from hazy uncommitted dreams into unsalvageable ancient history.
It's hard not to sympathise with this observation on my, though I wonder if this is how Iris Murdoch felt about it, or just her character Bradley? I have a collection of Murdoch's letters to read one day, the answer may be in there.
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