as yet untitled

finishing a draft has a certain pleasure to it. knowing that you have gone as far as you intend to go in pursuing the thread of a particular character's life is sad, but also wonderful, in the same way that losing a friend who you have spent too much time with and knows to much about you is both bitter and freeing because of the weight of the bitterness. being without that person gives you the freedom to alter their meaning in your life. the same holds true for fictional characters. before the point of departure has been reached, they extend their particular jargon and traits deep into me, their fingers rooting into my synapses and they seem like young saplings rapidly maturing into a network of redwoods, unable to be knocked over.

but when i decide to leave them, they have to finish their lives offstage, and whether they have resolved their particular dillemas is of no concern to me. it was, but is no longer. knowing that they now have to enact their dramas on a different stage gives me the freedom to revise, to come back and bore holes in the base of the trunks to run roads through, to cut roots that were reaching outside the limits, to trim branches heavy and shaggy with unnecessary weight. coming free from the spell of a given piece is an awakening that leaves space for only one possible thing: the opporunity to be entranced by another newer, more enticing piece.

this is how i feel on the evening of finishing a draft. in the morning i will probably say upon reading this post, as i have so many times before, "delete this post. delete this drivel. rewrite."

i have yet to come up with a name for the piece.