To write or not to write

Books as yet unborn …

It may mean plumbing for passions I’ve traded in for safety.

Unleashing anger after cultivating serenity. The vengeance-seeking child who thirsts for justice, who would punish meanness and cruelty, reward goodness.

The audacity of playing god – which character lives, who dies, who is guilty, who innocent? Who is loved, who unloved, unlovable?

I may come to care about these people on paper. Easier to not care about people and the awful ways they come to grief. Too much like those I’ve loved have come to grief – like I myself have. Easier to take a detached view of the whole human mess.
I will have to tell the truths. Lurking. Or buried. Festering. Wounds healed over and reopened.

I’ll need to wrestle with evil. The mind and heart of a killer.

To write a book takes an ungodly amount of time and work. And so much time alone. Haven’t I had enough of alone?

It might, after all that, be no good. Or just not good enough.

I might not have it in me to finish it once begun.

Part of me wants to just be lazy.

Reasons to begin:

It’s good to do something difficult. I’ll learn what is in my mind and heart. It’s an occupation for my imagination – the erotic, creative impulse. It may help keep me sane – possibly even joyous. And something tells me I will never be satisfied unless I do.

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