I never finish my life-made-into-fictional stories. It's always a dangling piece or a bunch of floating works sent to oblivion if I either get into a writer's block, become too lazy to put in together unimportant and overlooked pieces or just grow tired of the story.
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Hitori Jyanai, my fantasy-diary-turned-fictional hit during my high school sophomore year, was the closest thing to a finished masterpiece. I faithfully wrote in logbook pages (there were 2 in the end) every day, recounting my Adelfa days as well as the Champacas', Dahlias', Jasmins' and Sampas' (since the other protagonists' sections were roughly based here). Unfortunately, I left the logbook during Christmas break which finally ended the life of the story. If memory serves me right, it was supposed to be a happy ending: they all save the world, restore the future and everyone ends up together. Now, I would never know. As I reread the pages of my earlier adolescent stages, I can't bring myself to continue the story. The grammar and spelling are too terrible and difficult to understand anyways.
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Le Désinence, the latest story and the fourth and possibly final "installment" of the series which started during third year high school is no exception. What's nice about Désinence, however, is how the story was written. I started this during the summer of 2009 while I was taking up ES 11. I spent days imagining, planning and plotting story lines and characters. Then one day, I sat in front of a second-hand laptop running on Windows 95, and started typing. I finished the entire gist and the mini-stories in between on that day. All dangling what-ever-happened-to-them story lines (or whatever's left of my conscious memory) during the first 3 installments were resolved in this season. The supporting heroine's daily schedule was also included to avoid plot holes. It felt fulfilling reading and rereading it. However, I know it's incomplete: full of cracks that need to be filled up with actual words, content and meaning. Maybe I would continue it. After all, the story's set two years ago in the similar college I am in.
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A word file resides in my folder, reminding me of the barely started pieces I've come up with. It contains excerpts of various stories that I never finish. Different and unfamiliar names. Different settings and situations. All never given a chance to take off. It feels like having committed abortion. This idea-seed gets planted in my mind after a few exciting plans. If the excitement of the story wears out or if I feel that I couldn't nurse it till the end, I would just dump it. What would have ever happened if I continued it? It would've been nice but no, I give up.

At least something had started. Going through everything may indeed leave one hanging, but it still manages to reflect the instantaneous soul of the writer: the heart and thoughts of that person at that certain moment and instance. And once again, this writer feels inspired to make something again, and promises once more to finally finish that work of art.

Labels: anecdotes, cogitations, hobbies