As Yet Unfinished

Somewhere in my early teens, I suddenly came to the realization that I had quite a few stories to tell and not so much time to do it in. I had always been writing and had always followed creative sparks in other arts wherever they lit up my imagination, but this moment was my epiphany. Moment is the appropriate word, too, because it was that sudden. One minute I was more or less typically shortsighted as other kids my age, and the next, the sky opened up and dropped a sense of mortality on my head. There was no apparent impetus for the revelation, no sudden winking out of a young life that presaged the thought. All at once, I just knew, and it seemed like the knowledge had been lurking in the dark corners of my mind all my life, that there was somewhere I was supposed to be and I was running out of time to get there. Some people might classify it "a calling," and I suppose it could be, but to me it's always been this weird little thing that happened to me when I was a kid.

As I continued into my life, time and energy for the things I wanted to do grew scarcer, but still I managed to spin story ideas out and bring them to light in a number of ways. Usually, I'll be working on several stories at once, picking up the thread that suits my mood or inspiration in the moment and following it a while, then putting it aside when my heart tugs in another direction. I always intend to come back, and usually do, sooner or later. By my perspective, I've never had an unfinished story, only as-yet-unfinished ones.

And I do finish them frequently, to my satisfaction. They don't have to wind up published somewhere to be whole, finished stories in my eyes. The sense of accomplishment is momentary, though, because there's nothing like finishing a story to spark ideas for new ones. All those stories I felt compelled to tell as a child have been replaced with new tales budding daily. There just isn't enough time to finish them all, not enough hours to explore the concepts and the characters, too many worlds in need of discovering. That sense that I am running out of time has only intensified over the years.

The other night, though, as I was working through shifts of plot while waiting for sleep to come, another epiphany struck as quickly as the first. Maybe this is how it's supposed to be. We all come to who we are, and we do what we do until we die. whether we go while young or hang on for a century, the true tragedy isn't leaving what we love doing incomplete; it's running out of those labors of love before we run out of time. The happiest storyteller is bound to leave a bunch of half-told tales behind.