I’m struggling with a noir story with transport links today.
The story itself is set on a night bus, with a main character travelling home at the end of his shift. I’ve got the idea in my head, but it’s resisting all attempts to get it down on paper, or at least on screen. I’ve typed and fiddled and deleted and typed some more, and like the British Rail advert from a few years ago, it’s still only “getting there”. With a heavy hint of irony and progress that’s painfully slow.
Why does this happen? Why, sometimes, can I fly along with a story, words spilling out and fingers tripping over themselves to hit the keys faster and faster so I can get it all down. And why, at other times, is writing like wading through treacle, getting bogged down at every turn? If I knew the answer to that one I could bottle it, sell it to other frustrated writers and make myself rich. As it is, I’ll head back to the grindstone and hope that inspiration strikes, preferably before I grow old.