writing

The book is too long. For publication I must divide it in two books. I write back to the publisher this means I shall change names, titles, chapter headings. Chapter lengths. Whatever works. In place of all the sentiment, all the "your such a good writer," only the cut and dry thing I want: we'll publish you. We want the book. Do what you have to."

Jamnia, a more and more displeasing name when I think of it, has been divided into TWO novels now. The first being The Hidden Lives of Virgins, the second called The Shadow of His Face. What I have learned is that no matter how fulfilling writing is for its own sake, and for the writers, something changes, the responsibility of the wordsmith, I imagine, the moment you know that someone is reading you, someone is listening to you. Someone would put down money for you. Or check you out from the library... Or snag you from the shelf of a Barnes and Nobles.

I went to someone else's web log a week or so ago. When I count people I know in my life, be they from a distance, or in town I realize that there are only a few writers whom I know who are roughly my age. My age, our age, is a fiery age. I feel a twenty-something duty to whip other writers into shape. To scream, "Rage! Rage, against the dying of the night !"