Up till now, I've been driven to complete this volume as if I were trying to finish a project, not a collection of the inner working of my heart and mind. "Egads!" I scream. "What was I thinking?" And then it comes to me that this is probably normal. I certainly hope that it is. Then again, such surprising feelings might well fuel a whole new book.
Okay, then. Whatever comes from this venture comes. I think II'll pour myself a wee glass of Tempranillo, watch something not too inane on streaming TV, and try to put these thoughts to bed for the night. At least now, soon, when I'm asked, "What do you write?" I will be able to point them to a whole book of Echoes.