I find myself reflecting, at the end of the day, on what comes next for Echoes. Just a few edits and other tweaks to do on my book before it's ready to send out to print. Now that I am on the very doorstep of sending it out I find that I feel a little uneasy, and this surprised me. Handing out a poem here or there was quite alright, but making an entire book of my verses available to the public feels very different. Ah, I'm feeling vulnerable.
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.
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.
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