I’m sure most writers have one. The drawer where things go to die. Or at least the folder. The manuscripts you started but never finished, always telling yourself one day you’ll come back to them, one day you’ll give them the love they deserve.
I’m staring at that drawer, now… and I don’t know what to do with it. There’s three things in there that matter, that have decent ideas behind them and that I don’t want to let go of, but I can’t seem to get anywhere with, either. One is Distressed, the haunted house story that I’ve shared a bit of on here. Another is Vampire 2.0, a – theoretically – humorous piece where Dracula becomes a cyborg and his position as King of the Monsters is threatened. The last is Believe Me, a ghost story where a psychic on death row, who was previously proven not to be psychic, insists that a killer ghost is on the loose.
I love these stories. I want to tell them. But at the same time I can’t seem to put any words into them. There’s others moldering in the drawer, but I don’t think about them, don’t concern myself with them the way I do with these three.
They’re like letters written to some unknown lover, half finished in a fit of passion then hidden away because their contents are too much, and there’s more to things left unsaid than to blurting them out.
They’re secret treasures, but also secret shames.
I’ll figure out something to do with them eventually – if only because I have no other decent ideas lately, and thus must work on something, even if I can’t or don’t want to – but in the meantime they fester, splinters in the mind that no tweezer can reach.
What about those of you out there? Do you have a drawer? What’s in it? What makes things destined for the drawer, and have you ever saved something from it?
Insomniac Nightmares 
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