Alright, my dearest literary renegades, it’s time to sharpen your quills and dive into today’s word of the day: inchoate. This is the perfect word for those of us who live for the messy, half-formed brilliance of a story still finding its fangs. So let us tear into it like a pack of wolves on a full moon.

Inchoate (adj): Just beginning, not fully formed, or still a chaotic mess—like a half-baked plan to rob a bank or the first draft of my novel where the characters are still figuring out who the hell they are. It’s the embryonic stage of something big, but right now, it’s a hot mess of potential, teetering on the edge of greatness or disaster.

This gem comes from the Latin inchoatus, the past participle of inchoare, meaning “to begin” or “to start.” Break it down further, and you’ve got in- (into) and cohum (the strap of a yoke), so it’s got this vibe of hitching up the oxen to start plowing a field—except the field’s a shitstorm and the oxen are drunk. It slunk into English in the 1530s, and it’s been the perfect word for describing anything that’s still a rough draft of itself ever since.

I’m a bit behind schedule today, so I don’t have the time or bandwidth to come up with a story that’ll make you snort-laugh into your whiskey.  So instead, you’ll get this:

Frankie “Two-Fingers” Malone, a small-time crook with big-time dreams, is holed up in a dive bar, scribbling his master plan on a cocktail napkin. He’s got a crew of misfits—Vinny the Snitch, Carla the Klepto, and a guy they just call “Mouth” because he never shuts up—huddled around him, trying to make sense of his inchoate scheme to steal the mayor’s prized taxidermy peacock. “So we, uh, bust in at midnight, right?” Frankie slurs, smudging the ink with his sweaty thumb. “Then Vinny… does somethin’ with a crowbar, and Carla, you… fuck, I dunno, grab the bird?” The crew stares at him, mouths agape, as Mouth mutters, “This plan’s so half-assed, it’s practically mooning us.” Frankie slams his fist on the table, spilling his beer. “It’s a work in progress, assholes—genius takes time!”

Sorry for such a hack job, dear reader, but I’ve got a big, hairy deliverable due tonight, and Mgmt is acting rather adamant about this deadline.

N.P.: “Century’s End” – Donald Fagen