If I sat in the floor and surrounded myself with all of my unfinished manuscripts, I’d have a fabulous start on my own Great Wall of China. Except my wall would be deemed something along the lines of Sporadic Spider Monkey Wall of the Unfinished. Maybe I should throw in a nod toward procrastination, too.
These ideas are my mind’s utopia. In theory, they seem fantastic, but then the moment comes when I’ve gone as far as I can go without questioning the foundation. Once the author-brain kicks in (that piece of mind that’s a little more rational than the superfluous muse), the once tiny plot holes explode into something akin to the Grand Canyon. Instead of donning my rock gear and scaling up and out of the canyon, I start something new.
Because it’s easy. It’s easier to fabricate a new utopia rather than face the reality that nothing can ever be perfect.
But I’m not striving toward perfection– just completion.
So the unfinished manuscripts continue to pile up, just another brick in my not so great wall. These manuscripts aren’t even bricks, not really. They’re more like husks; lacking the weight needed to complete a sturdy foundation. I owe it to myself and my work to stuff these husks with concrete ideas and shape them into something more aesthetically pleasing than a cinder block (which, realistically, isn’t all that difficult. I mean, have you seen a cinder block? No fashion sense whatsoever).
And so, with these husks, I thee build. Word by word. Phrase by phrase.
How many husks are lining your wall? Pull one of those blocks out. Chisel it. Fashion it. Turn it into something beautiful. While utopia may be unreachable, the end of that story isn’t.
(Image via Famous Wonders)