Digital breadcrumbs

Cards I made this morning. More breadcrumbs fer shure!

The perfect way to describe my novels. Seriously lol.

Having taken off a few days from revisions (not writing, because in all honestly I am NOT WRITING anything at the moment), this morning I opened Splitting the Sky in manuscript form and began making corrections from the version on my phone. Where I had noted to rework this section, I merely inserted that directive onto the document, hah, then moved on with the next notation. I'll rework those sections after I clear all the tabs in the ebook, because it's still a holiday-sort of time, no need to get crazy with editing.

Also that in the big picture, my books are digital breadcrumbs in the corporeal sky.

Don't misconstrue; I take my writing (or revising, whatever!) seriously. My novels are the best of what I can produce right now, and I'm pleased (and a bit proud) of the themes pursued, prose created, characters blossoming whether I had them initially in mind or not. It's me I don't wish to flaunt, other than in pressing forward whatever book is the latest shiny or next in the sparkly queue. What I mean is that I write because I love to craft fiction. Or blogposts, ahem. Yet in the grand scheme, all these story lines and blog titles are virtual straws in the wind.

I hadn't heard the phrase digital breadcrumbs until yesterday. A dear friend mentioned it, and immediately I nodded as though having waited for the correct manner to describe what I do with fiction. Now I use this term loosely, not that I'm purposely leaving a trail to later be hunted with precision. Merely that novels uploaded onto the internet become the property of who knows all (or few) for the rest of, well, however long the internet lasts. Maybe in eons some form of our Earthen culture will exist in space via the tiniest chips loaded with the weight of this world. Or tomorrow some presumptuous nation will scatter all humans to the winds. So much is unknown as yet another calendar year raps on the door, wishing to muscle 2024 aside, asserting itself as only a new year can, full of bravado and promises and the assumption this year will be much better than the last.

Yet a new year is only another day dawning, another night falling. My stories, regardless of how much they mean to me, are more digital files stacked upon heaps of other files, and there's no princess alive that could recline on all that hoo haa and sense one puny pea underneath, like finding a pearl amid all the sand on every collected beach. Not to malign what I do, only to acknowledge how fleeting are these remarks and ruminations.

In this way, I maintain equilibrium in regard to the writing, that while I love doing it, it's not the be-all, end-all. It matters, oh my goodness yes! But it's a qualified importance, realizing for myself what I want from it, what I can give to make it happen. And when to truly release it, often well after a story has been published.

Maybe this isn't merely about the writing, but saying goodbye to a year that held great promise for my country. Within my heart a trembling is felt, so much uncertainty in what the new year holds. Perhaps that enables me to step back from my novelistic efforts, aware that no matter how much good I wish my books to inspire, I am merely a necessary cog in the machine of a planet that has trundled onward for more years than I can count. That I should do my very best, then breath deeply, moving onto the next project, shiny or that of a less stellar nature. And embrace that no matter what, all I am and all I do is steeped in grace. Yup, that about covers it.