And so we move to the next phase. A box of books arrived today and we celebrate briefly on the patio.
Because nothing has really culminated, in the sense that there is an end result, even though the physical reality of the book suggests that.
What’s clearer than ever is that writing is all about process. There’s really no ending, no beginning, just a constant continuation, just like reading. One word leads to the next, one paragraph to the next, one page, then another, then chapter after chapter, and even when the revisions end and the book gets to that critical stage of FINALLY turning into a book, nothing is over really. You just follow all the steps to take it to the next stage. And after you reach that stage, you continue to the next.
This book has moved out of my imagination and is now in the world. I’ve done my best with it, and while there is a lot more that I can do to make sure it finds all the readers it can, those options and actions are finite, unlike the imagination that led to all of the words and the world in that book.
So come along with me, both on the infinite journey of the imagination, and the finite journey of a few hundred pages in a book. I’ll take you on another journey with the next book too. And the next one after that. And the next.