I remember when I was a kid I always had ideas. So many ideas, in fact, that I could not keep track of most of them. Somewhere in a storage box there are hundreds of notebooks that were started and never finished. In that box there are thousands of ideas that never made it past a few pages (the lucky ones made it a bit longer, but those are few and far between).
That memory is frustrating, because now–now when I feel like I could do something with an idea–they have all left. My mind is racing to find that thing I need to start writing, and like a slimy tadpole it keeps slipping away.
I know that in order to write, I must start writing; I know that ideas should not be taken for granted and that, sometimes, they come about in the unlikeliest of places. I know that I shouldn’t complain; I know that I am not the only one.
But it’s frustrating, all the same.