In the summer office today, scribbling after yet another novel. I want to see how the story turns out but after six novels and three collections of short stories my impulse to see it published has diminished considerably. Even as I stalk the story, the questions rise- “Would another book have anything new to say? Does writing fiction belong in the time I have left? Is there a door opening that I am refusing to see?” Repetition looms.
At the first fire I build outside the camp, I want to circle round the limits of my little light in the unknown night. Surrounded by unfathomable possibility, I still lean into the familiar strangeness of my little home made far from home. In the dark Beyond, there is More than I have seen or dreamt but this far out on the Edge I have become timid. I am afraid to change my shape one more time.
I hear you. I've been of the mindset that I don't write a word that is not intended to be published somewhere, in some form. But maybe writing, as an expression of life itself, is more fluid than that - a way to more deeply understand the Mystery, a way that has its seasons.
That's quite the debate you have set for yourself, and yet in the midst of that questioning you still embrace the writing, needing to see where it takes you! ...hmm.