I’ve held onto this idea for a looong time: WW1, a conscientious objector escapes from Princetown Work Centre, and while wandering across Dartmoor, develops shamanic abilities which are put to use when he arrives in a Cornish community shattered by the war.
Well, as a semi-formed log-line, it sounds alright, but as I’ve finally delved more deeply into the who, where, why and how of it this week, I’ve realised - it doesn’t work.
It damn well doesn’t work. For four years I’ve been mulling this idea, weakly thinking that one day I’ll sit down and write it and prove to myself that I am, in fact, some kind of storytelling genius.
Four years I’ve lived with this illusion, every day experiencing deepening levels of cognitive dissonance as I’ve tried to reconcile the life I’d chosen with the one I knew I needed.
One week, or, if you prefer, a combined fifteen hours of work later, I realise.
It’s a crappy idea.