I want to write a novel. No, rephrase: I want to have written a novel. I love to write, but I get bored of writing. I am a literary sprinter (which is funny, because the only running event I was any good at at school was the 100 metres). This is also funny, because I love to read a long novel – or for that matter, watch a long film (although probably not, with respect of the latter, in one sitting (certainly not with respect of the former (obviously))).
I like to waffle on a bit. No, rephrase: I sometimes tend to waffle on a bit. Oh, who am I kidding? I like to waffle. Sometimes. But I do get bored of my own waffling. I’m getting bored now. Where was I?
I like to write in spurts. I may write a series of loosely interconnected spurts, but when a spurt becomes a trickle becomes a torrent, the torrent tends to dry up, leaving me floundering ineffectually in the mud. I’m not saying this is inevitable. I have written some longish short stories and blog pieces, even the first few chapters of a few novels. But that’s as far is it’s gone.
I’m starting to flounder now. My waffle is getting muddy. Now that sounds really wrong, but I hope you get the metaphor.
One day I’ll do it. One day the spurt will become a trickle will become a torrent will become a stream, a river, a beautiful expansive sea of sparkling prose. One day. But not today.