Why does the initial power of an idea - the absolute certainty that it really could be developed into an interesting, wortwhile piece of writing - fizzle away so quickly? It was only a couple of days ago that I was sitting in the garden and I suddenly thought, 'Ooh, that would be quite good.' Hardly any time has passed and I've already reached: 'Who the hell did I think I was kidding?' I made a few pages' worth of scribbles in my trusty notebook (one of many) but each line just brought me closer and closer to the conviction that far from being interesting and wortwhile, my latest idea is contrived and dull. I'm pretty sure it was Krzysztof Kieslowski, the film director, who said that none of his completed films was as good as the version in his head. But what kept him going was the constant attempt to bring each subsequent 'final product' closer to the ideal in his mind's eye. Maybe artists don't thrive on success at all: perhaps it is in failure that they find their most potent sources of motivation?

I know not the answers to such time-wasting musings. Back to ye trusty book of scribbles...

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