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…
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