The real reason we are here in the US: my niece and nephew wanted to go to Yellowstone Park. Months ago, we said, “Sure.”
To my fellow Americans, wherever you are in the world, Happy Independence Day. 🙂
History is all around in England. I feel almost foolish; that I should have known this, but somehow I had missed it. I’m at least glad I discovered it now… rather than later.
I realized yesterday that my previous post might mistakenly lead anyone new here to believe that I write novels only of two centuries ago and three-cornered cocked hats on gentleman and bonnets on ladies…
I blog here; but I’m not really a blogger. I’m here because of a decidedly different kind of writing. I’m here for my novels…
Considering myself “harshly” in that way, from the outset I have felt I am not particularly “representative” of male fiction writers of the present.
Whenever I am finishing and OTHERS will now shortly have to read it, once again I start to have pre-publication terrors. I can’t help but think: What if I’m too close to its writing trees and I have failed to see the reading forest?
I may have even shredded them… which, for an historian, I guess makes me a terrible person and even a vandal. (That said, thinking about it now I may have a paper copy of Distances in a box in the Catskills, where I had finished writing it in 2015.)
“You seem to know lots about what Frenchwomen think,” my [English] wife has teased me more than once. Actually, no, I don’t believe I do…
What this program is to me is yet another reminder as to why I groan at dystopic visions of the future; I consider them dangerous particularly to kids’ and teenagers’ life outlooks.
Would anyone out there want to shoot me? Of course, I’d rather not actually be shot.
I fully understand now why some authors do go loopy or worse – and especially when embarking on a several years’ long writing effort.
That is an example of why I feel political and social belligerence on my blog or other social media is inappropriate. (I came THAT CLOSE to unfollowing that person on Instagram, but decided I would not.)
How many of us deep down desire to get away from all of the “noise” of this century in which we must live? How many of us wish to saunter on a secluded country lane by the side of our well-dressed handsome gentleman or bonnet-wearing lovely lady?
Because once the last word is on the page, well, that’s it. Done. You have become just someone who has written a book. That was then. What are you doing now?