The Flower is Cut Before it Blooms: I Have a Starting Problem

I have a starting problem. I think I’ve always had it. 

When I was doing my GCSE art project in school, I picked street art. Big, bright, colourful art reminiscent of graffiti and urban architecture. I planned the project, curated a collage, and thought about the many directions I could take the project in. About three weeks in, after collecting artefacts, writing plans, and making art, I changed my mind. 

Urban art was out of the window; I wanted to focus on nature. The planning started again. I picked out greens, browns, bark and bush. It was a new project, a new plan, a new collage.

This pattern has haunted me most of my life. 

I start, I stop, I never finish. But why?

There’s something about the beginning that feels so good. So fresh and new and unspoiled. So easy. 

The problem is that nothing ever gets done. None of my dreams are ever realised because they are quickly replaced by new ones.

One of the most heartbreaking examples of this is in my lifelong dream of being a writer. I’ve always wanted to write. It’s not just my hobby; it sets my soul on fire. Over the last two years, I’ve planned three different books (not to mention many others, only half-planned or scribbled into my notes app). Each of these three books, which I planned in detail, curated reading lists for and even started writing in some cases, is saved in an untouched and unpublished folder in my Google Drive. It’s a digital graveyard of ideas that looks like this:

These are just three of my short-lived, abandoned projects. There are many more. 

So, what gives? Why can’t I stay the course? Why am I so good at starting, and so bad at finishing?

I think part of the issue isn’t finishing at all; it’s continuing. 

There’s something safe about starting. Nothing is public. Nobody knows what you’re doing. Everything is hidden and perfectly planned. It’s safe. As soon as you share a piece of writing, it's out in the world, it's imperfect, scrappy, open to criticism or, in most cases, ignored altogether (invisibility can also be a special kind of pain if you let it). 

There’s also something fun about starting something new. I tend to get bored with mundane routines and a lack of new experiences, and find it difficult to write about the same thing for months on end. If a shiny new idea comes along, then I’ll pivot long before I get the chance to see the full potential of the original idea. In other words, the flower is pulled out of the ground before it has a chance to bloom, and another is planted in its place.

What’s worse is that my three book ideas are all essentially the same idea, just dressed up in different ways. They all look at life, flourishing, humanity, and philosophy. I’m forever fascinated by this journey we’re all on, always picking it apart and resealing it in my own way. The ideas in those books aren’t different; they’re the same. It’s the same woman dressed in different jewellery. I seem to be very good at distracting myself with the aesthetics of starting, rather than doing the hard part of writing and publishing. 

I’ve found that AI can make this worse, of course, because every new idea shared with a chatbot gets predictably positive feedback. I’m made to believe that all my ideas are 100% worth pursuing (even if I haven’t allowed the previous one the time it needs to bloom yet). Even when I prompt for more critical reviews, I tend to dismiss them more quickly. And yet a human eye feels too risky, too real.

The more I live, learn, and observe, the more I’m realising this pattern in myself.

Luckily, I have a hunch that awareness is the first step to recovery. 

Part of the reason I started this blog was to give myself the creative freedom to write consistently, not to stick to one register. Some posts are philosophical and deeply reflective. Some posts are professional, related to my career and passion for higher education. And some, like this one, are more like diary entries. Each one is different. That used to worry me. I thought my writing had to fit neatly into a box to be taken seriously. But I’m realising now that I need to be able to crack the box open once in a while, otherwise I won’t stay consistent. 

So yes, I have a starting problem. But I know I have the problem, and that’s the first step.

This blog, and what evolves from here, will not fall into this trap. I accept that sometimes the work will seem messy, uncontained, and haphazard. That’s life. That’s human. That’s me. 

If you’re interested in seeing what it looks like when a chronic starter follows through, then stick around.

Perhaps we can learn to be consistently inconsistent, together.