A winter’s writing

A thought occurred to me this evening, driving home, lost in thought: perhaps I should share the draft novel which spilled out of me this winter. Maybe I need to free it, even if it is an incomplete early draft, untouched since February.

Of course, my ego petitions me: don’t do it, or someone will steal it. But the realist within reminds me that I’m not a great writer and it’s unlikely this will ever actually see the light of day in any other form. So perhaps I will publish it in installments here for a while after all.

The novel in question is really a sequel to the long term project I spent most of last year editing — but I’m not sure if I will even publish that one. Caught between writer’s doubt and total meltdown, I’m not sure it’s a novel I can release into the wild. It’s a work of fiction, but it regularly provokes intense agitation in my heart.

This winter’s writing though: it has a different tempo and mood. It’s more optimistic, more upbeat: a tale of love and forgiveness. In truth, its characters probably inspired my own behaviour over the past few months, making me more forgiving and merciful.

Perhaps this novel begs to be released, here and now, rather that wait another decade for me to find the time to give it its proper due. Perhaps this is what the hobbyist author must do.

Seeking the one: Table of contents

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