Nothing but book talk

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The colours in this shot are referred to within my book. The birds aren't, but they are a nice touch. Photo from July 2024, taken at Humboldt Bay, California.

Okay, so this is MOSTLY novel chatter, but a heads-up: my latest fictional WIP, written in late summer 2023, seems to possess much ado concerning our current political climate. I can't escape that as I read over three chapters each morning, making me wonder if I should release it sooner than I had planned. Current launch date is for March seventeenth. Maybe writing this post will clarify that decision.

Or make known to me something other than outside noise; I've been trying to engage in beloved pastimes. With writing, all I can manage are revisions, which is as necessary as the drafting of said manuscripts. And I am TRULY GRATEFUL to have books at which to poke, not merely for the distraction, which isn't how I usually approach my writing. It's never previously resembled a distraction; for years (nineteen of them) it has been a FOCUS. It slipped from that top spot after my mom died in 2018, but in the middle of Covid I reclaimed it, or let it envelope me. In 2023 I wrote four new drafts, thought I had died and gone to authorial heaven! I thought 2024 would proffer at least a couple of additions to what had turned into a new series, but that didn't occur. I thought the beginning of 2025 would usher in a new story. AHEM. Now I'm *hoping* in May I will have the gumption/courage/wherewithal to write something NEW. I won't assume anything, but I can hope till the cows come home.

What I'd LOVE right now, among other things, is to be writing something new so I can get lost in it. Reading through a story is great, but immersing myself in a new world, now that's relief. I mean it's creative energy marvelously expended. Am I looking for a panacea, a placebo? That's not what writing has been in the past, or at least not that explicitly. Yet I've used my writing to deflect personal hoo haa, or at least wade through it in a safe boat that doesn't leak. Never have I tried to write while my democracy crumbles around me so vividly. So far, I'm not handling that well.

Except when I read those three chapters each morning; how did I craft a tale eighteen months ago that now feels so relevant? Often I note how the writing is a complete GIFT. I write from a place within my heart that is wholly attuned to grace. Splitting the Sky was originally written over a dozen years ago, but certainly speaks to RIGHT NOW. Is the third book of The Enran Chronicles similar? I feel like it is, and who knows what shape America will be in less than four weeks? Perhaps I should accelerate the release date for my next story. Maybe in another month I won't have that liberty.

Paranoid, maybe. Probably. I really don't know anymore. It's extremely hard to walk the line between despair and joy. Maybe even considering writing something new is folly; what is the point? Then I remember this quote: It may be that the day of judgment will dawn tomorrow; in that case, we shall gladly stop working for a better future. But not before.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote those words in 1943 while in prison. I am sitting in Humboldt County, unfettered by walls and chains other than those of my own making. I went to a protest on Monday. Perhaps I need to find the time and inner mettle to indeed write a novel, if only because I can. So much to ponder, where previously I left politics and revolutions for others to coordinate. Yet I must reconsider my activities to better reflect the times I now dwell within.

Not that I'm any closer to deciding when I'll release my next novel, but once I make the decision, I'll be sure to let you know, insert winking emoji HERE!

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