Between Fecundity and the Scrap Heap

It’s an odd thing, but if I go for a while without writing, I feel like a damn criminal. I get anxious and feel as though the entire world is scrutinizing. Of course it’s not; every writer knows that nobody is ever waiting to see their work — people have to be told they are.

I feel some much more at home exploring the nature and the limits of what it means to be human in a narrative way. There’s only so much living you can do in a day, but there’s so much more life that can transpire and expire in a work of fiction.

It’s raining in Maine with a drab winterish sky. Most of the leaves have fallen, whipped high and low by the wind, washed away by the rain, and sluiced about. It’s the kind of day to stay in, bothered by thoughts of a book that has no predetermined direction and nothing to prove, written in the spirit of Cervantes.

“Writers are people who don’t grow up to realize they can’t be God.” Fran Lebowitz

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