Not spoken stories. I have no trouble boring people with the words I speak aloud. It's the written ones I can't finish (although the boring factor certainly carries over here, as well.) There's probably three dozen or so half-written, half-thought-out, half-conceived, half-believed, half-assed attempts at literature (as it were) laying around in drawers, notebooks, glove departments, book shelves, compost piles, etc. I'm not a finisher. I'm the guy who gets you up to the finish line but breaks your heart. If my stories were leftovers, the fridge would never be empty. And I hate leftovers. They're cold, they're lifeless, and they've seen their better days. So it's time to get to steppin'. Delila Dunko deserves to know how her life is going to finish. So does that boy rhino that my daughter and I started to write about. Hell, we gave that kid a girl's name but never bothered to tell anyone why. So does the dog named Spike that I left hanging on for dear life in a tree branch so long ago. Dude's been in that tree going on 20 years now. That mysterious guy with no name that drives an old Jaguar and always seems to end up in front of my house for some reason, he, too, needs some closure. Bob Dylan helped save my goldfish in one story, but damned if I know why or how. Didn't bother thinking that far ahead. And therein lies the problem. Thinking ahead. Is it better to begin something and not finish it or to never begin it in the first place as to not disappoint anyone, including yourself?Thanks goodness for guys like Rod. He's odd. He's round. He's green. But he's a frickin' survivor and a damn fine poet.
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