The early stages of an idea are delicate. You can see the idea glittering in the sky above you while you clutch onto the end of the string—afraid to reel it in lest the fancy turn out to be flighty and skitter away the instant it is threatened by reality.
You watch the idea dance about. Could it be a giant butterfly? A bird of paradise? A bit of cloud? A winged jewel? But as you begin to pull it down to earth, the bright thing becomes something else entirely—a balloon or a kite. More solid and manageable, to be sure, but also a let-down when compared to the ethereal vision in the sky.
These early, as yet untouched dreams are a wonderful part of the writing process. They are often the spark that ignites interest, the ache or longing that pulls us along to the finish line, or the vision we aim for as we struggle through the labours of making the thing.
I know many writers who would rather not reel in the string because the butterfly or the cloud is so beautiful, they do not want to be disappointed with lacklustre results. I’m at that point right now. I have a bright idea at the end of a string, and I’m nervously preparing to reel it in.