This recent night, as I watched the game there was a brief flash of a stadium sign that read, “Remember 1951!” … that’s why I watched the game, a reunion, if you will, of memories.
My current project is at an impasse. I’m standing still. I’m not sure where to go. The truth is, I’m rather lost.
I’ve come to believe that professional writing is not just an occupation, it is a way of life. It may not fill your pockets, but it will fill your mind. Your time. And your worries.
One of the curious things about professional writing is that you work on a book for a year or more, but since it’s meant for readers, you need to wait longer to see what folks think of it. That wait can be a fretful time.
To create a society in which people are paid to spy upon one another, be it for politics or the books they read is abhorrent to me. As a citizen, as a writer, I feel obliged to speak up.
Indeed, when I meet with readers it is not unusual for someone to ask me a fairly detailed question about a book I wrote—like The Man Who Was Poe—and are astonished that I don’t recall that moment in the book.