Because what good is "the conceptual incomplete"? (If I had to name these ambient thought projects I call scripts for graphic novels. They're concepts that haven't been fucking finished because they're not fucking drawn.) It's not like a fuckin' readymade, is it? No one's going to pick these things up and finish them for me. No-one's liable to say OOOOH that pile of overwriting's lovely let's wear it like a fabulous mink stole.
It's only going to moulder in a box, like me when I'm done.
Which is morbid, but fuck it. Yesterday my husband was talking wills, and I was nursing a fresh scar. If one requires more motivation than that to get up off the old rusty-dusty and DO something, then that person is prob'ly a PC gamer. So it's up and at 'em, today. Tidy the bookmarks. Tidy the studio. Add lines to pages. Fix scripts. Buy a new print cartridge & start a fresh round of revisions. GET TO IT.
I am not leaving a pile of work for the love of my life to sort out. He's not going to want to draw all this rubbish. I barely do, as it's intimidating and seems like more than life's worth, some days. But these are the tasks we are set, the roads we pave ourselves so our inheritors may travel more easily, yes?
New scar, new me. And I've accrued enough scar tissue I barely recall myself. The memory is loose as milkfed stool, falling out all nasty. Like I've been meaning to amend the final few pages of Denizen for a few months now. And here are all these bookmarks on the moon, staring at me. I don't remember researching these things, honestly, like I don't remember finishing sketches for so much of this tarot.
If god tires of tapping your shoulder for attention it raps you on the skull.
Let's get to it.
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