As a writer, I am forever pricking myself on needles in the haystack. The elusive ideas that some spend years chasing, I find regularly.
Good fortune, you say? High risk of blood poisoning, I counter.
Just as I settle down to examine one beautifully pristine needle, I am poked in the thigh by another. My attention span is bloody rotten in these cases, and one idea ends up poisoning the next.
Ridiculous, you say? Infuriating, I counter.