There is a drawer in my desk that holds three notebooks, none of them finished. A leather one from Lisbon. A spiral one with water-stained corners. A slim cahier, barely touched.
I used to feel guilty about this. Now I think unfinished things are records of appetite: evidence that you wanted more than one life at once.
Leaving room
What would it mean to treat incompleteness as a practice rather than a flaw? To leave room at the end of the page because you trusted the silence to say the rest?
The unfinished thing keeps you in relationship with it. It asks you to return.