I don't know how many pieces it has, although I suspect it's got a lot. They're hidden all over a huge house in bundles of varying sizes. The bundles also contain some pieces from completely different puzzles which, although sometimes very pretty, have nothing to do with the puzzle I'm working on. Sometimes I get clues telling me where another bundle of pieces is hidden; sometimes I only stumble upon one by accident.
I don't even know if all the pieces to this puzzle actually exist.
And I'm blindfolded.
That's what trying to work out this story feels like, anyway. In the unlikely event that I ever actually write it, it will be nothing short of an entire novel, because it's too vast and complicated to fit into anything smaller. It combines mythology, folklore, history, and literature, which makes it even more difficult. I itch to get these ideas down, but I don't know how to express them yet. I think I feel the empty shape where the next puzzle piece needs to go, but I can't find the piece.
Plus, I have other things to do--like writing short stories that I can actually sell, like cleaning my bedroom and computer room, like writing stuff for the MU*s I'm on--which are more sensible in the short term than this weird story. But suddenly I'm just not interested in them.