100 novels live inside me.
Some I write as poems because I get bored quickly.
Some have a natural hook and a dance beat. They become songs.
A few bloom into a full plot, character sketches, random baubles of backstory.
I finished two.
One lives in a black hole in cyberspace.
The other lives in my memory and on a five-and-a-quarter inch floppy disk.
Both corrupted storage media.
Sometimes, rarely, a novel will arrive in a sense of fullness,
a complete glorious narrative waiting for the telling.
And there it recluses, known only in the flash of my firefly attention.
But what a concept.
What an ending.