We all have them: brilliant story ideas.
Sometimes, they come to us fully formed. You see every facet clearly—who your protagonist is, the trouble he or she faces. What they will do to dig themselves out of it… the trouble they meet along the way. Sometimes, it’s just a flash. Something you see or hear triggers a thought. That thought leads to another… and another… until the idea takes shape and you’re left with no choice but to write it out.
And other times that something you see or hear burrows into your brain. It niggles and nags. It refused to be pushed aside—demands to be written.
So, if these ideas take all the time and trouble to bring themselves to our attention, to demand that we listen, why is it that sometimes they have the audacity to be unable to support the story we so desperately want to write? Why is it that they fall apart half way through the novel?
I hate to say it, but… it’s not the idea you should be blaming. It’s you. You’re probably the reason things aren’t working out the way you’d planned them to. The idea didn’t fall apart. You probably broke it.