SLICES OF INSPIRATION By Lorraine Mace

There are times when I wish I had writer's block. The thought of sitting in front of a computer where nothing is happening sounds quite appealing to my beleaguered brain. Blank screen, blank page and blank mind. Heaven.
Actually, it isn't writer's block I need; it's an idea filter. Many articles have been written to show how to find inspiration, but that has never been my problem. Avoiding cerebral fatigue, whilst competing thoughts have a mental boxing match, is my dilemma. The ideas are like tiny cartoon figures, each shoving and pushing to the front of my consciousness, while jumping up and down screaming: "me, me".
In the bath, crossing the street, playing tennis, cooking, reading and, worst of all, writing. It doesn't matter where I am, or what I'm doing, ideas attack without respite.
You don't think it's a problem? It isn't possible to have too many good ideas? Well, imagine this:
I'm writing an article about the early years of the Tour de France when a brainwave for a travel feature strikes. So far so good, only one article in progress and one new idea. I leave my cyclists labouring up a hill and make a note about the travel piece. Then I'm inspired by the thought of a cooking article on the region that I'm going to write the travel feature about. This in turn gives me the idea for a short story set in a hotel, which I have to set down as an outline before I lose the plot. Meanwhile, my old-time cyclists have decided to take a smoke break and are chatting amongst themselves.
As I am about to return to them another idea strikes. This has no connection to anything that I've either written or thought about before. It's what I call one of my random slices through the brain. How about a piece on relationships between older women and younger men? Or love in retirement homes? First passion? Last passion? No passion?
I cannot write fast enough and my head hurts. The cyclists are now threatening to ride off into the sunset unless I come back, which wouldn't please the editor at all as the piece is due at the end of the week.
In an attempt to recapture the mood, I read what I've written so far, and am horrified to find that I've inserted odd words into the text. Nestling gently amidst a description of the endurance required to compete in a cycling race, I discover an aide-memoir about breast implants. Not mine, you understand. An idea for an article on the possible problems attached to the operation. No wonder my cyclists were getting hot under the collar and wanted to race away.
I try to be single-minded, but I'm terrified that the idea I allow to escape will be the best one. I'm imprisoned by my own fertile imagination.
Won't somebody please write an article on how not to find inspiration? Hey, that gives me an idea or four ...