Agonies of a Young Author

Abhor, abhor, abhor, abhor, abhor. 

I'm trying to bring some papers back with me to summer school, to go through and organize, to transcribe after many years of sitting forgotten in some file folder or drawer... The problem is, I forgot just how messy my personal slush pile can be. Not neat, finished pieces that just need reworking. Oh no. I have scraps. Tons and tons of scraps. Little, fluttery, ripped up things that shed confetti and get lost in the bottom of bags. Folded up 2x2 squares with sleep writing (the weirdly spaced out handwriting that an author scribbles when trying to write in the dark or before falling asleep)  and crossed out lines and odd fragments that go no where but once were considered important enough to write down. I probably have a good 20 real pages, 15 half pages and about 50 quarter pages (or less; thirds, fifths and 1/32 pages are too mouthy to include in a rant) and that represents only about one third of the sh...stuff in a single drawer, and I know I'm missing another box somewhere in the black hole that is my Oval Office. Only one third! And I'm tearing my brains out trying to figure out a way to organize all this paper!!!

I hate scraps. I ABHOR scraps. I abhor my scraps, my slush pile, and anything that is handwrite, wrinkled, folded, crossed out, and/or torn up. I want finished pieces, darnnabbit! But my problem is, even though I am prolific (I am actually very prolific, just not in the way that it counts, and therefore have nothing to boast about or be proud of) I don't finish things, and really that's just my own darn fault. I can't complain if I don't finish stuff, and I don't finish because I don't get the ideas out and on paper and actually WRITE. 

So back to the slush pile it is. 

Right Now: 

What I'm listening to: Kyo "Je cours" 

What I want most: sleep