It seems like all I’ve been able to write lately are titles.
Strictly speaking, that isn’t true – I’ve written other things – but titles are the only pieces of writing that have come easily these last few days. I never thought that I would have this particular problem. I’ve certainly struggled with choosing titles in the past. Yet these days potential titles tumble from my keyboard with terrifying ease.
The trouble with titles is that they come with stories.
When I phrase it that way, the issue hardly sounds like a problem at all. What is wrong with having a few new titles and their accompanying story ideas? Surely it’s better to have too many ideas than too few. But the sheer number of them overwhelms me. I want to give each and every one of these nascent stories form. They all exist vibrantly in my head, and I can’t help but want to bring them to life.
Unfortunately, there isn’t time to write every story any more than there is time to read every book. Many of my stories will never be born. Not really. Not the way that I’d like for them to be. That’s something I have to learn to accept. Self-editing can come at all stages of the writing process. Even at the title.
But I still sigh in exasperation when I realize that I’ve added another title or 12 to the list of them that I keep. They are unwieldy little creatures.