Dear Small Ideas,
As you may or may not be aware, my ambition in life was to make a successful living as a novelist. Sure, I'll need a crap job to pay the bills until that happens, but that's how I planned it.
There is, however, the slight complication of my muse working in the wrong way - which is nearly as bad as it not working at all.
Basically I have two large ideas. There's the rock and roll story that I've been dying to write since I was about fourteen years old and getting into punk for the first time. At the moment that's only coming to me in dribs and drabs. So too is the story using training for a marathon as an analogy for a broken mother / daughter relationship that is being mended. Once again, coming to me in dribs and drabs and I can't get a complete idea. I am blaming you for this, Small Ideas. Sure, you're a lot of fun sometimes. But to me, it's like the difference between snacking extensively and having a proper meal. You are the extensive snacking and it isn't good for me. You guys are flowing nicely, but you're stopping all the big ideas from getting through to me. I want a big idea; I'm sick of you small ones and your insistence on interfering. I wouldn't mind if I could only find a common theme amongst you. That way I could make a compilation, extensively redraft and then I'd have something to surrender to a publisher. But no, you have to be awkward and picky and come when I least need you to.
What I'm trying to say, Small Ideas, is this: until I think I have a use for you, FUCK OFF.
Thank you.
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