Dear shiny new story idea:
Yes, I feel you in my brain, pushing
against the door. You want to come in and shove my current,
half-finished, project off my desk. You are banging at the door, calling
my name, bombarding me with phrases and scraps of plot.
see, this has happened before. I often find that when I turn to a story
idea that has been knocking--when I open that door--the idea turns shy
and shrinks away. "Who, me?" it asks. "Umm, yeah, I might possibly have
something to say. If you ask very nicely, maybe I will think about
sharing it with you." The idea that has been pounding on the door with
all the muscle of a pro boxer turns into a fragile, fluttering belle on
the verge of a swoon.
You might have copied this from my cat. He
will writhe before the door, yowling the feline equivalent of, "I MUST
GO OUTSIDE RIGHT NOW RIGHT NOW I HAVE URGENT CAT BUSINESS TO CONDUCT OH
YOU STUPID HUMAN DON'T YOU SEE HOW IMPORTANT THIS IS I MUST GO OUT OR I
WILL DIE IF YOU REEEALLY LOVED ME YOU WOULD OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!!!"
Only to face the newly opened door with a surprised blink and ten
minutes of tiptoeing toward the threshold, sniffing the door jamb,
peering outside, and contemplating the meaning of life, before actually
exiting the building.
But don't get me wrong. I'm glad you're
there, and I hope you're just as vigorous when it's your turn as you are
right now, when I have another story to finish.