"Mixture of aromas, rust and dust and must on the window screen, honeysuckle from next door, wisteria thick and heavy on the vine in the backyard, the precipitate night air itself, together soothed him and assuaged the lonesome, incognizant yearning for father that lay at the base of his perversion. This is ecstasy, he thought, his cheek on the windowsill, his tender hairless nostrils rimmed with chill from the rush of inhaled air. Dark, safe in bed. Late summer no school. Somewhen, not in this life, but in another one previous or not yet, he felt unremembered events in him, carried on the aromas..." -- from Chapter 6
I hope to have The Paraclete, in its new, streamlined styling, ready to send to the publisher by the end of February. Fortunately, this latest revision is much more readable, user friendly, accessible. The pages will turn better, and there aren't so many of them.
Writing is a slow process for me, and I have worried that people might become impatient with me. But I also realize that nobody is sitting around waiting for my next book to come out. (Well, maybe one or two people are, me and Cindy.) I'm fortunate that I'm not forced by circumstances to try and meet any expectations; that means I don't have to hurry, and that my writing is the careful realization of my artistic vision, not an attempt to meet market expectations. Said circumstances didn't materialize purely from luck -- I worked pretty hard for a long, long time, writing from the heart instead of pursuing a "legitimate" career. But although the work we choose to do is the force that shapes our destinies, much of life is just what comes to us, not what we wrest from it, and for what the world has doled out to me, I'm grateful.