Some novels, like some authors, need space, reflection, and time. Years of time.
And then there’s the rest of us caught up in this crazy digital publishing race of more is more.
But is it really more?
Fifteen years ago the idea of finishing a novel, any novel, seemed as foreign and exciting to me as a penguin-counting expedition in
Could I finish a novel? I persisted and what I once thought impossible became
semi-routine. There is no question in my mind now that finishing a novel is
entirely possible. However, that original question has been replaced by
something far more exotic, perhaps something truly elusive, and more daunting
than tallying breeding pairs of Emporers on ’s Glacier: Taylor
In my lifetime, could I pen something truly memorable, something of lasting value with lovingly turned prose and exquisitely crafted imagery? A story capable of making readers pause and perhaps reexamine the scope of human life and what it means to be human in this day and age?
I’m talking big-picture values and lofty aspirations. Issues I’m not even sure I possess the talent, or possibly even the time (decades?), to tackle in a meaningful way. Should my literary inspirations be shuffled off to the mental closet marked maybe in my next lifetime?
Each of us have issues gnawing their way out of our souls. Do mine belong on the page? Once exposed to the light of day, will they be of any help or comfort to others? Maybe it’s just not me. I love writing mainstream fiction. I love entertaining my readers without delving into the dark night of our existence. While I love and admire literary fiction, sometimes counting penguins is good enough.