10.30b

[I now have two ideas for novels I will never finish because I am not a novelist. The first is, of course, Catherine. The powerful need I had to write what happens AFTER has now faded, but I feel some measure of responsibility for having brought her into the world, and I can say that I do still plan on finishing her. Maybe.]
[The second plan I recently realized in the form of a very short story which Janelle assumed to be about the perennial "she-demon" who haunts my blog, but which really is about the woman/idea of the waning harvest moon, which can be read here, on this blog. Now I've muddied the search terms, and all. The good news is that I want to write a book titled Medusa, but in which the story is actually something else which is only lent power and an "aha" moment by the title. I want to write a story about a woman on the edge of youth who fights to keep it and the people in her life who watch her denigrate herself and slowly calcify into one of those really terrible women you see in the supermarket who look like they want to be their daughters.]

These ideas, though grand and spectacular, will never garner me any acclaim. I play my cards too close to my chest. I never bet. I'm incomprehensible. My books will never be made.
I suppose that means that they'll never be burned.