The Peril of Publishing
Late one night many years ago, my infant son started to cry and couldn’t be consoled. An hour passed, and nothing else worked to calm him, we got in the car and started driving. We drove east through cornfields and towards a circular cloud with a thunderstorm inside. A storm contained in a floating orb, a cumulonimbus with lightning shooting through its veins like an aorta or an electric eel. My son had long since stopped crying, but we kept moving towards the cloud.
Sometimes, writing has the same pull. It’s often a drag, always a practice, but those of us who write or do any kind of creative work are often moving towards a hovering story that’s always a little more east, a few miles further ahead.
Somewhere along the way, many of us think about writing a book.