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.)
Olhão, on Portugal’s Algarve coast, is more than worth a visit if one ever gets a chance. We have stayed here these last few days…
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.
I have never been gripped by tales set in murky purportedly kinda ancient Celtic or Scandinavian locales, where magic pops up, that are populated by people wearing furs who look like they haven’t ever cut or even combed their hair, or washed in the last decade…
I considered my perspective and my tiny contributions in four (and, hopefully, soon to be five) novels. I hope within them I have offered “creativity” – travel, learning, history, friendship, love, and even some lessons – that entertains, but also gets readers involved and thinking. But no single book can be everything and it is asking too much of any writer to produce that.
Oh, and what do authors discuss in private messages? Hush, hush, secret writing stuff, of course.
Hello from upstate New York!
I always think when I see such a meme or assertion: “If you actually do believe that rubbish, you’ll learn that you can’t do it. I have.”
A mere seven years ago, in early 2012, most of you had never heard of me and I knew of almost NONE of you (who did not know me already in real life).
I thought once again about how learning history is, yes, about broadly knowing “big events”; but more important is drilling down to contextualize them and seeking better to understand those lives lived before ours.
My mother never knew any of my books even existed because I was certain she would have been unhappy with them; I didn’t see the point of creating trouble and my uncle had agreed with me on that…
Sometimes I write a comment and afterwards I think… that should not be “buried” among other comments.
My cousin in New Jersey, prompted I gather from all of our exchanges about her daughter’s writings, emailed me that she had the other day bought ALL of my novels.