Morally Grey

If my unfinished drafts were people, they’d have formed a support group by now. They’d sit in a dimly lit room, sipping imaginary coffee, sharing their trauma:

"Hi, I’m Chapter Three, and I was abandoned mid-sentence." "I’m a once-promising fantasy novel. She left me for a crime thriller that she ALSO didn’t finish." "At least you guys got past the outline stage. I never even got names."

Look, I want to finish my stories. I really do. But somehow, every time I start writing, I end up with another half-finished draft to add to my ever-growing “Work in Progress” graveyard. Stage One: The Love Affair:

It always begins the same way: pure, unfiltered obsession.

I get an idea so good I convince myself this is the one. This story will finally make me a bestselling author, get me a Netflix deal, and let me retire to a cottage where I do nothing but write and feed stray cats.

So I do nothing but write. I drop everything else. I write feverishly. My characters have painful backstories, and complicated love triangles, set in a magical and beautiful world with vivid terrains. The energy is unmatched.

Until...

Stage Two: The Uh..what now phase:

Somewhere around the 4000-word mark, reality starts to set in.

Why is my protagonist suddenly being so boring?

Why does my villain sound like a bad Tumblr post?

Why did I introduce a subplot which makes zero sense?

...wait, what even is the plot?

At this point, I do what every writer does. Close the document, lean back in my chair and think to myself 'I'm just going to take a small break."

And by “break,” I mean I close the document and pretend it doesn’t exist.

Stage Three: The betrayal:

Somewhere down this break line, I meet another new idea. She's fresh and ... well shiny. She takes me by her slender, beautiful hands towards the land, most famously known as "A new idea."

Next thing I know, I’m 10,000 words into a new project, and my old draft is lying in a cold, forgotten folder, collecting digital dust.

If my stories could talk, they’d file abandonment charges against me.

Stage Four: The Guilt

Eventually, I stumble across my old draft and think, Wow, I should really finish this.

I open it. Read through it. Cringe at my own writing. Close it again. The cycle repeats.

And the worst part? I know I’m doing this. I know I’m creating a graveyard of unfinished stories, but do I stop? No. In fact, I’m probably adding another half-baked idea to the pile right now.

Will I ever finish the Draft?

Statistically? Unlikely.

But hey, maybe one day, I’ll actually finish something instead of running off to chase the next big idea.

Or… maybe I’ll just start another new project. That seems more on-brand.

I am doomed if the government ever decides to investigate me based on my search history. Not because I’m doing anything illegal—but because the things I Google as a writer paint the picture of an unhinged, slightly (creepily) obsessed, and possibly dangerous individual.

Let’s be honest: being a writer means you end up searching for things that would terrify the average person. While some people’s search histories are full of recipes, workout tips, and “cute dog videos,” mine looks like something straight out of an FBI watchlist.

Exhibit A: The Crime Research Phase

Sometime last year, I was writing something that fell into the thriller/murder mystery genre. It started innocently enough. A character in my story must commit a crime (duh), and I need to make it sound realistic. The next thing I know, my browser tabs look like this:

How to get away with murder (for writing purposes, I swear)

Fastest way to dissolve a body

How long does it take for someone to bleed out?

List of untraceable poisons

And, of course, after every search, there’s a panicked addition of “for writing” at the end—because somehow, that will convince whoever is monitoring my searches that I’m not actually planning anything sinister.

Exhibit B: The Fantasy Research Rabbit Hole

When writing fantasy, I get to escape the murder investigations—only to enter an equally bizarre world of mythical creatures, ancient rituals, and questions that would make any historian concerned:

How many people can a dragon eat in one sitting?

Do gods need sleep?

How to curse someone (but like, in a poetic way)

Do wings interfere when getting intimate? (This doubt was swiftly cleared after reading ACOMAF)

Fantasy research is fun until you realize you’ve spent two hours reading about obscure medieval poisons and now know how to make one using herbs from your kitchen. (You shouldn't)

Exhibit C: The “Just Curious” Black Hole

Writers love details. The problem is, that we often go looking for one tiny fact and then spiral into a rabbit hole of articles. I might start with a simple query like “How far can a person fall without dying?” and end up on a Wikipedia page about ancient parachute designs which in turn lead me to Leonardi Da Vinci. (Don't ask me how)

Some other real searches I may or may not have conducted:

Can you cry underwater?

What does being stabbed actually feel like?

What happens if you don’t sleep for a week?

Can you really punch someone hard enough to knock them out, or is that just movies?

The Aftermath: Clearing My Search History (Just in Case)

At some point, I realize that my search history is a horror show. Do I delete it? Ofcourse not, because I know I’ll be searching even weirder things tomorrow. Instead, I just accept that if I ever go missing, my browser history will make me look like the prime suspect in my own disappearance.

The truth is, being a writer means asking bizarre questions, obsessing over details, and occasionally scaring yourself with the knowledge you accumulate.

But hey, if anyone ever needs advice on where to hide a fictional body—I’m your person, jk.

-Z, your morally grey writer.

My brain when I think about my scene: A vivid, cinematic masterpiece, rich in sensory detail, worthy of a literary award.

My brain when I try to actually write it:

• He walked into the room. No. He sauntered into the room. (Googles sauntered)

• The room was… big? No. Large. No. Spacious.

• He sat. No, that’s boring. He… collapsed into the chair. No, wait. He sank into the chair. Actually, maybe he perched on the chair? Wait he’s not a bird. What even is a normal way to sit??

• There was a smell. A nice smell. Like… something that smells nice. The room smelt… is smelt even a word?

And just like that, the scene that was so beautiful in my head now reads like it was written by an alien experiencing human life for the first time.

Does anyone else have this problem, or do I just need a thesaurus and a nap?

There’s a special kind of suffering that comes with almost writing. You know—when you have the idea, the characters, the scenes playing out in your head like a film only you can see… but when you sit down to write, nothing happens. Instead, you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally offended you. You open a new tab. You get up for water. You suddenly remember that one extremely specific task you must do immediately or the universe will collapse.

And just like that, the moment is gone. The idea slips back into the fog of your mind, waiting for the next time you swear you’ll write it down.

I used to think this was a failure. That if I wasn’t writing, if I wasn’t getting words down, I was failing at being a writer. But here’s what I’ve come to realize: Almost-writing is part of writing.

It’s that frustrating, insufferable and messy phase phase where your brain is simmering with something even if it hasn’t boiled over yet.

But almost writing is still writing. So fellow writer, when you are up at 2 am, chewing at the end of a pencil, cursing yourself for not putting pen (pencil in this case) to paper ; dont worry.

Even as you saunter to bed, and lie down looking up in darkness while thinking about your characters and your world, you’re still writing.