Doing the write thing
You know, my problem as a writer is not that I can't write. Gawd no. I can write. It gushes out of me, whenever I sit near a keyboard. I can hardly help writing. I have words to spare, billions of them squirming, kicking, itching to be written. I have a fluent, writing style, a voice, you could say. I feel confident in that. I'm not one of these guys who feels they need to polish every word until they shine. A bit of rubbing, maybe, a quick flick of the chamois, but only the barest minimum. I think what comes from the tap is pretty good - maybe not Margaux, but wine all the same.
No, my problem is that when I have an idea, it engenders another idea. And that has another, until I have a bush of ramifications of half-thoughts, which I cannot order, I cannot make into a coherent story.
You know, I can't edit! What a turn-up. I'm paid to do it. Paid well, sometimes (and rightly so, I'm bloody good at it). But I cannot prune my own ideas. Or channel them. Or whatever metaphor works. I could do it for someone else. I could focus you just like that *snaps fingers*. I could pinpoint why your writing doesn't work - or why it does - without hardly thinking about it. But I can't stop myself overthinking it.
And, here's the rub, I will not be satisfied with vin de pays. I want it to be Margaux (and a good year at that). *sigh* I could so easily be, well, whoever (because frankly the names are interchangeable) but I strive for so much more.
Sometimes that feels foolish.