One of the odd things about songwriting is that the ideas rarely arrive in an orderly queue.

They do not politely wait until the previous song is finished, recorded, mixed, mastered and released. They tend to turn up whenever they feel like it: halfway through another song, while driving, just before falling asleep, while making coffee, or at precisely the moment when you have absolutely no time to do anything about them.

That is how the pile begins.

A line gets written down. A melody goes into the phone. A chord sequence is recorded quickly before it disappears. Another idea sits in a notebook with a hopeful title and two verses but no chorus. Somewhere else is a song that is technically finished but still needs recording. Another is recorded but waiting for the final vocal. Another is almost ready to send to Jermaine Nelson-Williams for mixing. Another has somehow been sitting untouched for six months despite once being described as “the next one”.

Songwriters accumulate unfinished business.

I suspect most people who write songs have their own version of this. Voice memos, notebooks, scraps of paper, half-built Cubase projects, lyric files and mysterious recordings called things like “New Song 3”, “Idea Tuesday” or “Definitely Use This”.

The last one is particularly dangerous because, six months later, you may have absolutely no idea what “this” was.

There is something exciting about having too many ideas. It means the creative part is still working. I would far rather have more songs waiting than sit staring at a blank page wondering whether another one will ever arrive. But abundance creates its own problem: every unfinished song quietly asks for attention.

And there are only so many hours available.

For an amateur or independent musician, songwriting has to fit around life. There is no team waiting to develop the material. There is no producer scheduling studio sessions while somebody else handles the administration. You are often the writer, musician, recording engineer, arranger, website editor, social media department and person responsible for remembering where you saved the bass part.

That means songs can spend a long time travelling from idea to finished release.

Writing the song is only the beginning. Once I decide an idea is worth pursuing, it has to become a complete song, then an arrangement. I record the instruments myself in Cubase, work on the vocals and gradually build the track until it reaches the point where I can send the raw stems to Jermaine. He then brings the fresh ears and professional production, mixing and mastering expertise that turns my home recording into something ready for release.

Every part of that process takes time.

Meanwhile, of course, another song has appeared.

This is where the songwriter’s attention can become divided. The new idea always has a certain advantage because it is fresh. You have not yet heard it forty times. It has no technical problems. There is no difficult vocal to re-record and no arrangement decision that has been bothering you for a week. It is simply an exciting new possibility.

The older song, meanwhile, has become work.

That is unfair, because the older song may be the better one. It is just further along the road, which means its problems are visible. The new song is still enjoying the luxury of being perfect in your imagination.

I have learned that this is one of the traps of songwriting. Starting can be much more exciting than finishing.

Finishing requires decisions.

Is that verse good enough? Does the chorus need another line? Is the guitar part helping? Does the arrangement need more space? Is the vocal ready? Is it time to stop changing things and move on?

Every unfinished song represents a collection of decisions that have not yet been made.

And songwriting can be wonderfully good at generating alternatives. A different chord here. A new lyric there. Another possible bridge. A completely different tempo. Perhaps the song should be acoustic. Perhaps it needs drums. Perhaps it needs fewer instruments. Perhaps it needs more.

At some point you have to stop asking what the song could be and decide what it actually is.

That is where time becomes important.

If I had unlimited hours, I could probably keep revisiting old material indefinitely. Modern recording makes that very easy. Nothing has to be abandoned because the project can sit on a hard drive waiting patiently for your return. A song from years ago can be opened again as if you only stopped working on it yesterday.

That is both wonderful and slightly dangerous.

There is always another old song whispering from the computer, “You know, I wasn’t actually that bad.”

Sometimes it is right.

Going back to older material can be fascinating because you hear it differently. The emotional attachment may have faded enough for you to make better decisions. A lyric that once seemed essential can suddenly look unnecessary. An idea you abandoned may turn out to contain something genuinely useful.

But revisiting everything is impossible.

Eventually, every songwriter has to choose.

Which songs deserve finishing? Which ideas should stay as ideas? Which ones need more time? Which ones should be left alone? That last category is perhaps the hardest, because abandoning a song can feel like admitting failure.

I do not think it is.

Not every idea needs to become a record. Some songs exist mainly to teach you how to write the next one. Some contain one good line that eventually finds a better home elsewhere. Some were useful at the time but no longer feel important.

That is part of the process too.

The challenge is recognising the songs that keep pulling you back. The ones you find yourself humming days later. The lyric that still feels honest. The chorus that refuses to disappear. Those songs usually deserve another look.

For me, this is increasingly how I think about the backlog. I do not need to finish everything simply because I started it. I need to identify the songs that still have something to say and give them enough attention to reach the finish line.

That sounds organised.

It is not always organised.

There are still notebooks, recordings and Cubase projects waiting for their turn. There are still songs I fully intend to finish “soon”, a word songwriters use with remarkable flexibility.

But perhaps that is not such a bad thing.

Having unfinished songs means there are still possibilities. It means the next project may already be sitting there waiting. The difficulty is not finding something to write; it is deciding which idea deserves to become the next finished song.

And that is a problem I am quite happy to have.

Because somewhere among the voice notes, half-written lyrics, abandoned choruses and forgotten Cubase projects may be a song that only needs a little more time.

The trouble is finding that time before another one turns up.