I have a lot of unfinished work sitting in front of me.
I don't think anything should be abandoned, though in my lethargy I tend to approach that cliff. I attribute this to my ongoing battle with depression, which tends to produce sloth. But then depression becomes the excuse, and you have a vicious circle.
I have many projects I started long ago but couldn't finish for one reason or another. I have a rough play that might be better served if I attempted to turn it into a novella. Its protagonist is a habitual criminal who comes home to confront his father's past sins, knowing he is making his last stand against authority.
I have a local baseball history, first published as a newspaper serial, that needs to be polished into a short book--not, obviously, to shake the world, but to complete the record of my endeavor.
In fact, all of this is for the record. It sure in the hell won't sell.
I have a screenplay that could use the "Overdrive" treatment that CD has experimented with, effectively creating an interesting, skeletal style--though I would attempt to flesh it out just a tad more as novelization.
I have a second screenplay that I've tried to do this with in the past. The results were unsatisfactory, but I should give it another go.
I have more recent project-starts that deserve attention as well. I haven't been able to find a suitable voice for a video based on my memoir. The thing has long departed its birth as a purely rehashed memoir. It ought to be more a meditation than a telling of events. There's a way to do this, I just haven't grasped it yet.
Finding the comfort zone between ambition and talent seems key. I guess that's true for everyone, so bless the winners and curse the pretenders. If there's a nugget in this well, it's that I'm doing what I want, though even I question its value.
One project I won't question, because it isn't mine and because I really like the idea of giving others a voice, is Lee Santa's jazz memoir, which is my lone solid effort right now. I hope to bring it out early next year.
The best of RBP consists of Deemer, Lucas and Bacon. I believe in Santa as well. They are the heart of the matter. Merry Christmas to them.
You ought to buy their books today, wrap them in glittering paper, and give them to your loved ones. Put them under the tree and surprise the hell out of mom and dad or your favorite sibling.
I wonder what Christ would have thought about Christmas? Or perhaps I shouldn't go there.
Story ideas come to me all the time, but I haven't lately been able to seize those moments and do the rigorous work it takes to shape them.
Any goddamned excuse to avoid them is fine with me!
I'll occasionally hear the lyrical (to my ear) opening of a poem and give it a workout. I have a pile of fragments as a result, and few finished pieces.
I should make more pictures as well. I should try to write another song.
If you're a young person reading this, get to work! You'll regret it if you don't.