It happens to me more often then I’d like.
Stumbling across old journals, battered by time and covered in scribbles by my lovingly appreciative son, and upon opening them I’m immediately filled with a sense of regret at putting pen to paper.
See, I suffer with what I call ‘comic book syndrome’.
A term I use to describe that sense of having one charecter and giving them 500 starting stories, various origins and reasons that they are who they are.
So everything I open one of these old books, I’m faced with the prospect of my charecter being a naturally talented swordsman, that happens to be chosen by fate to become something bigger ‘fate actually being a charecter’
Or he’s a mysterious traveller that comes into town one day, wielding powerful magics and is also a master swordsman.
Or he’s a baby that’s rescued by a clan of werewolves and then taken by someone/something else.
See what I mean?
Not even one page in and he has 3 different opening stories.
It can make putting pen to paper (or finger to screen in my case) difficult, and even worse if I return to the story.
Let’s not get onto the state of my writing…
That bizarre webbing of letters, that drunken scrawl (soberly placed) that drags it’s sorry self across the page and attempts to form a story, but falls short due to its illegibility.
But that, my friends, is something for another time.