promise

I've lost my way a little recently, with my writing I mean. I finished my last writing project, John Mann - At Day's End, and published it over 18 months ago, and I've struggled to find a project to focus on since then. I've had plenty of story ideas, and that's probably the problem, I've had too many ideas. It seems like a good problem to have in many ways, too many ideas, but a problem is a problem no matter how it presents itself. I've followed each of those ideas for a distance, a period of time, be it a matter of hours, days or weeks. I've outlined the whole story of one, written a couple of chapters of another, noted detailed dialogue from a scene for a different one altogether. I'm a bit like a dog whose attention keeps getting sidetracked from the stick, to a scent, to a butterfly, to the ball. I focus intently, for a time, and then something else catches my attention and I move on. Is this a personality disorder, a form of writer's block, or a result of lockdown anxiety? It's frustrating whatever it is. But it's not without its compensations because I do have half a dozen projects that I can pick and choose between at any time, depending on my mood. And while I'm not racing ahead with any one in particular, I have several that I'm inching forward, very slowly, like Sisyphus pushing that giant boulder up a hill, although in my case, of course, it's boulders. I searched for a visual metaphor for this problem and ended up taking the photograph below. For the first time ever, I'm lucky enough to have access to a garden with a grapevine. The grapes are a long way from being ripe and ready to eat, but they are full of promise for the wine to come. I'm trying to see this whole experience as one being full of a similar promise. I'm holding a sheaf (bunch) of story ideas that could all come to fruition by developing into finished stories. I just need to learn patience, and perseverance in tending them.

The photo is the author's own.