It is quickly becoming an existential question. Will an established publishing house ever publish my novels? I was born to write, I have no choice, I spend hours upon hours every day envisioning and typing. But what is the point? I must write. But why write if no one will ever read my stories? Is there some greater, vaster purpose? Is the reason for my writing not to publish, but to personally learn and experience something other? Something far beyond, something deeply interior? Layer upon layer of knowledge, meaning, and feeling? Is writing a meditation, creating unexpected connections amidst focused quietude? I don’t know. I don’t know. I just don’t know.
Yes, these are the things I wonder, as I’m falling asleep after yet another day of writing.
I just returned from several weeks of vacation in Colorado, where I stayed with my writer friend Amy. She is a great source of inspiration, having spent more than a decade writing and writing before becoming published. And now she just finished reading the galleys for her seventh (published) novel, which will appear for sale later this year. She encourages me, she edits my work with a kindly deft hand, she promotes my stories however she can. And she tells me, and I so want to believe her, that since I was born to write, I will indeed be published. Keep writing and writing. I can do no other.
And yet, as I fall asleep, I wonder….