After the bitter disappointment of last week when the release of my first book was postponed yet again, I have had time to take stock. For a writer, the ultimate goal is understood to be publication, and the recognition even if only by a small number of readers, that the work that went into producing that book was worth it. But when there’s a glitch in the publication process, when something happens that pushes the finishing line further into the future, the question arises: is publication really what it’s all about?
I have one book that is caught up in the tangled web of editing to a publisher’s satisfaction. But I have others, other worlds, other stories that I have written and revised, more that are waiting to be set down and brought to light. I started a new story today and I realise that the satisfaction to be had from creating not the story, because there is nothing new under the sun, but the way of telling it is enough in itself. The satisfaction of writing that final line, when the words come just right, and the story is told, is not like the excitement of knowing that a story is available to be read by millions of people. It is a deeper, more personal contentment, and I am happy with that. Publishers publish. Writers write.