Blog 65 - To Do List

Blog 65 - To Do List

September 2025

Oh, the humble to-do list. A beacon of hope, a promise of order, a gentle nudge towards productivity. For weeks, my computer has sat there, a blank digital slate, silently judging my chaotic writer's brain. "You should really make a list," it seemed to whisper from the depths of its digital innards, "just to see what you're actually working on." And, like a fool, I listened. Armed with a fresh cup of coffee, a determined spirit, and a slightly manic gleam in my eye, I embarked on what I believed would be a straightforward exercise. A quick tally, a neat categorization, perhaps even a satisfying tick-box moment or two. Oh, how naive I was.
What began as an attempt to correlate my creative endeavours into some semblance of order, quickly became an archaeological dig of epic proportions. It wasn't a list; it was a catalogue; An inventory of ambition and distraction. Unfortunately, I seem to thrive on the sheer, unadulterated joy of starting something new and rarely bother with the pesky commitment of actually finishing it.
I won't bore you with the full, soul-crushing extent of it – partly because I’m aiming for "light-hearted" here and not trying to trigger overwhelming dread, and partly because I'm still processing the full implications myself. But let me give you a taster.
There's the novel, "Artemis Rising," which has the potential to be a cracking Science Fiction story, it has everything, plot twists, high tec gadgetry, corporate espionage and an edge of the seat climax. So, what have I done with it? … nothing. It’s Just sat in the digital void. It's been patiently waiting for a 'final edit' for what feels like several geological eras. I suspect the Artemis has long since given up on me and time-travelled to a dimension where its story actually gets told.
Then there are the short stories. Oh, the short stories. This file is a veritable graveyard of promising beginnings. Some exist as a single, evocative sentence, a beautiful premise adrift in the ether. Others made it to a respectable 1,500 words before I apparently decided the plot had peaked prematurely. One, a whimsical tale about Elves, ends abruptly with the main character mid-sentence, staring blankly at a squirrel. Clearly, I lost interest or got distracted by an actual squirrel. The irony is not lost on me.
And the competition entries! Those tantalizing calls for submissions, promising fame, fortune, or at least a nice commendation. I found no fewer than seven half-written masterpieces, each tailored to a specific theme or word count, and none of them quite meet the requirements. There's the sci-fi flash fiction that needed 500 words but only has 300, and the historical romance that needed 2,000 but stubbornly refuses to go past 1,200 without resorting to detailed descriptions of Tudor hat fashions (which, while fascinating, doesn’t exactly move the plot along). I even found one that was essentially just a title (“Origin”) and the highly encouraging note, "THIS IS BRILLIANT! WRITE IT!" Thanks for the pep talk, past me. Real World me is still scratching my head wondering what the hell it’s supposed to be about.
The list, my friends, goes on. There are blog post ideas that were never blogged, character profiles for people who never got a story, and entire world-building documents for universes that remain stubbornly unpopulated. It's less a literary portfolio and more a sprawling, digital archaeological site, filled with the fossilized remains of good intentions.
As I scrolled through the endless parade of files labeled "v1", "final, final Draft", and "this is it I promise", a single question burrowed its way into my brain, echoing like a lost protagonist in an unfinished novel: How did I get into this mess?
Was it the allure of the new fresh idea, sparkling and pristine, feeling like a siren call? Each new beginning promising an easier, more exciting path than the arduous trek of completing something already started. The grass, it seems, is always greener on the next project. Or perhaps it's a subtle form of performance anxiety? The moment a project nears completion, it inches closer to judgment. An unfinished manuscript holds infinite potential; a finished one risks being merely good (or, heaven forbid, not quite good enough). Maybe I'm a connoisseur of potential, preferring the thrill of the chase to the satisfaction of the catch.
Then there's the sheer, glorious distraction of life itself. A sudden urge to bake sourdough, a fascinating documentary about beavers, the undeniable magnetism of a particularly fluffy cat video – all valid reasons, surely, to abandon a meticulously crafted plot point in favour of something far more immediately gratifying. My creative process, it seems, is less a straight line and more a drunken meander through a field of shiny objects.
Whatever the reason, my to-do list has not brought order, but a terrifying clarity. It's laid bare the sprawling, untamed wilderness of my writing life. It's a testament to boundless creativity, yes, but also to an equally boundless capacity for getting sidetracked. So, what's the plan now? Do I bravely charge into this backlog, brandishing my metaphorical red pen like a sword? Do I vow to finish "Artemis Rising" before embarking on another epic fantasy? Or do I, as a seasoned veteran of creative chaos, simply accept that this is my natural habitat?
I like to think I’m going for Option A. Mostly. But first, I think I need to make a to-do list for my to-do list. You know, just to get organized. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll start with that short story about the Elf. He deserves an ending. Even if I do have to bake some sourdough first.