I was just browsing at this file that I have. It's of all these narratives I've written that I've never finished. Most are about 50% or so done. At that point I lose interest in them. It's not that I don't know how they will end, I do. It's like my own Island of Misfit Stories. I sometimes imagine all of the characters sitting around drinking coffee, waiting for the story to resume when someone yells action. But it seems the perfect analogy of my life, these files. A promising start, a spark of success, then reversed or left hanging out there never to be realised. A friend told me once that I could have been brilliant at any number of things if I had simply focused on one thing and saw it through, rich and famous even, it was suggested. But instead I had chosen a path of being slighty above average at hundreds of things. What, I ask, is wrong with that? In my opinion that is sampling life and living it to it's fullest. Not holed up in a room somewhere dying for my "art" with my single minded drive and obsession. Those are the people who end up pointing shotguns at their brains.
The next point a friend will generally make in this conversation is "you're just rationalizing. You are very artistic in many ways but you run from it."
This point always drives me insane. What is meant here is artistic in the sense this person thinks is art. You know, the whole "what is art anyway" argument. Must it be a recorded song or a painting on a wall to be art?
What of creating a garden and landscape pleasing to the eye? How about preparing a meal that is delicious and visually enticing, is this not art? Just because what you create is for your own pleasure and not for public adoration, is it not truly art? I subscribe that true art doesn't care a wit for it's audience. In fact when the audience is being thought of it then becomes product really more than anything. Product for consumption. Not that there's anything wrong with that in the least.
Now back to those characters still in exile on the Island of Misfit Stories. I am currently doing the best thing I can for them and their welfare, because I care for them deeply. Because in reality many of them are me or pieces of me and always pieces of those I love or have loved before. And because they mean something to me, I want the best for them. When their story is finished and presented to a piece of paper someday, I want them to be the wittiest, the most thought provoking, the most richly developed characters they can be. And to do that, I need to out there with the living and breathing taking it all in. Sometimes the missing puzzle piece is under the couch, sometimes it's not so easy to find. But in time, the puzzle completes itself rather nicely. Like water, time is the universal solvent. When you're young, time pisses you off. When you realize it's value you are old and have little left in your possession. When you're in the middle of the process, that's when you need to make hay while the sun shines.
Actually this whole discussion is a sham. The original question from a friend was actually answered like this.
"yeah, yeah, bite my ass".

last - next