A few years ago, I had an intensely clear idea for a book. It's a love story--but also about economics, poetry, pharmaceuticals, and self-exclusion--inspired by a mashup of translations of Psalm 49: "The ransom of a soul is costly, no payment is ever enough." The main character, who is introduced in the second half, is named Theo. The ending is a variation of the prisoners' dilemma game. I wrote 3600 words, including a line I pillaged from another work-in-progress: "Life should not be a longing for all that you lack." And then I quit.
The synopsis sounds pompous. The execution felt trite.
It could have been garbage. It could have been great. It could still be either and at least it would exist. After all, this cutting wisdom is circulating Tumblr:
But I don't plan on taking it out of the drawer any time soon.
Other projects. Obligations. Obstacles. EXCUSES. Though mostly I blame the abandonment of this story on a shift in my attitude towards writing. If it's silly or absurd or simply pretty and nice, it's not bothering anyone. If, however, it's a ponderous nuisance, I'd rather keep it to myself. Maybe that's maturity or maybe a veiled form of insecurity.
Anyway, should it matter very much, I will say that when I've completed something tremendously enlightening for public consumption, I have every intention of forcing it in front of people's faces.
Now, I rarely write bloglets, so while the text box is open, here's a postscript:
I was struck by a literary parallel yesterday.