When I open my writing folder on the computer, a series of sub-folders present themselves. I won't tell you the title of each one, because that would be a little bit like unbuttoning my jeans in public: a little uncomfortable. Inside each sub-folder is a number of projects. Telling you the titles of those would be even worse: like pulling my pants down in the supermarket (next to the frozen peas, where all the worst things happen, dontcha know).
What I'm getting at is that I have a number of 'open' projects, in various stages of completion (in fact some of them are definitely too young to be regarded as being at any stage of completion), because my mind needs them to be there. My priority work at present is a memoir of school days, but as so often happens, I'm finding it heavy going. At such moments, it suits my fevered brain to have another project - or projects - to turn to, and upon which to wreak my formidable - nay, terrible - creative power.
I'm in such a phase right now, and the project which is playing substitute for the school memoir is a novel - yes, a novel - on the subject of murder most foul. it's a departure from the kind of thing that dragged me into writing, and that's a deliberate choice. Change is good, change is invigorating, and change is developmental. Change is particularly important when dealing with underpants. For example, I change my underwear every month - whether I need to or not.
And now, if you don't mind, I have a third-level character to kill off....