My other half, who knows me better than I know myself, has pointed out that I have this quirk while eating—cute? wasteful? just plain annoying?—in which I never finish what is on my plate. I always leave a piece of lettuce, a fallen bit of broccoli, one last bite. It’s just something I do, I guess.

I wonder if this is somehow related to my inability to finish my writing projects. I’m trying to finish a story now, but the end is not wanting to call it an end. I have two dropped novels—full drafts, but you could still call them unfinished. Another unfinished draft of something new. On my computer, what?, five, eight, ten stories not yet done? There’s more I’m not remembering, I’m sure.

The only time I can finish a piece of writing is when I have a deadline set down upon me by outside forces. And even then, even then… even when turned in to the editor and by all accounts “done,” I bet if given one last chance to edit it up, I would.

The novel due in November will get done: it has a deadline.

But what about everything else…? Protective armor maybe. If someone says no, you can tell yourself in defense: But it’s not done!