Winter is Coming

I've been hiding from my pen. Oh, I've written notes, snippets,little vignettes, and observations.

I haven't been finishing this year.

Not finishing has become almost a motto. I'm "the incomplete writer." Seems that writer is an oxymoron there.

This "desk clearing cycle" has me looking over drafts and re-writes that stand the test of time away. I'm pretty happy on the whole.

I need a reader I can trust -- and I have one. He isn't put off by my unfortunate sensibilities which are too like those of Raymond Carver, without the talent or the booze. I need to do my job and get material to him.

The picture above is from a wood delivery a couple years ago. That's Lou the foxhound giving the pile the once-over. He does about the same to my efforts though he urinates on my writing less than he does the woodpile.

I'm ashamed of "not finishing."  There. I said it. I'm ashamed.

Not finishing allows me to go along with my illusions unchallenged. I get to believe in a past which is without substance beyond "shows much promise." I can continue to be unjudged.

Which is a lie, of course.

Unfinished brings its own judgement and for whatever reason, unfinished is meaningless.

I will pick a project. I will work it to completion. I will send it off. I have no idea why I wait thinking something better will strike my imagination when in fact it is the act of writing that produces its own unsourced inspiration.

Winter is coming. There are few enough left. I shall work my next novel as a series of short stories. I know it is how I work best.

Another log in the stove. Another ten pages.

I have to stop hiding from my pen.