The Book

Posted: 20th August 2012 by admin in Uncategorized

Alone, I am nothing.  I am made up of little pieces of the world.  Bits of many people and places.

When I was very little I lived in Burma and there was a small bridge not far from my house where I used to go play.  The whole world lived under that bridge and I controlled it.  I observed and reigned.  I never dared step in to that world, though.  It was too dangerous. I stayed on the outside with my nanny protecting me.

Writing a book is a gargantuan task.  It is one of the scariest things in the world.  Not only is there the fear of failure  –  “even if I do finish it, will anybody want to read it?”…. but, there is also the fear of losing a part of yourself.  Every writer must give a piece of themselves, a part of their soul.

Will it be enough?  Is it noteworthy?  Why is it necessary?  Somebody I know once told me it is a form of immortality.  All humans strive for immortality and writing is the way to achieve it.  Maybe.  But is that why we do it?   Really?

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