art collector.

Here’s my list of screenplays I’ve either outlined, drafted, or just thought would be good ideas. Who knows if I’ll ever write them:

Where’s Jefferson?: follow a two dollar bill around for a day, a drama

Counting Chickens: exposing the corrupt adoption racket (this is the one I’ve been working on for years that started out at 156 pages that has now become 8), a drama

Dead End: about a cemetery groundskeeper who lives on a dead end street at a house that abuts the graveyard, a comedy

Skim Milk Turns the Coffee Grey and Other Tales of Woe: I have no idea what this is about, but definitely a comedy or perhaps a tragedy

Like a Diamond: will the love she meets in the sky ground this career-minded stewardess? historical romance, definitely shot in black-and-white, Casablanca feel

And now I’ve just violated one of the cardinal rules of fiction writing: don’t show your hand or else someone may steal your idea.

Oh well.

If you read this post and want to make those movies, I’d happily pay to see them. Saves me the work.

Since I’ve never really finished a screenplay, I’ve decided to start a new writing adventure, and never really finish a novel.

Definite navel gazing, I’m writing a memoir about my former life as a budding pianist. I have lots of stories to tell now that I have some distance: what it’s like playing at Chicago’s Orchestra Hall or playing live on the now-dead classical radio station or being filmed for television or sitting in a recording studio adjusting levels or what it feels like to knock a big, bad Beethoven concerto out of the park — and what happens when your dreams get washed away.

I like this project a lot. But as with every big creative undertaking I try to do, it may just end up at the back of the “to do” pile along with all my half-knit sweaters, partially complete interior design initiatives for our house, and that list of dusty screenplays.

My name is cms8741, and I collect unfinished art.