What on earth ever possessed me to start so many projects while leaving so many others unfinished?
Alright, so some of these files are more “active” than others, but I didn’t even count the ones that I’ve cast into a file I’ve simply named “Black Hole”. Some projects have grown so old, so stale, or so frustrating that I just don’t want them to escape into the light of day.
Yet, I can’t throw them out altogether.
Part of it, sure, is sentimentality. My writing, since I started all the way back in junior high, has matured. At least I hope it has. The first stumblings of a wannabe author are, just like those of a toddler, amusing and cute, but wholly unsuited to enjoyment by anyone but a parent. One of my first efforts (thankfully lost even beyond the clutches of the “Black Hole”) plagiarized whole sections of a favorite author. I never thought it would be published, and didn't dream of attempting to do so. I admired the author, enjoyed those passages, and included them in my own story. A fourteen year old’s homage.
But it’s more than sentimentality.
Having my “Black Hole” sometimes proves fruitful and even inspiring. Working on an active project, inspiration will strike like a brick to the back of the head, and I’ll realize I’ve written something, a character, a scene, a vast landscape of descriptive text, that not only fits, but matches perfectly.
It’s better than serendipity. It feels like the execution of a plan years, decades, in the making.