I am preparing to make a book from scratch. Needle, thread, glue, papers…
I’ll sew the signatures. Glue the text block together and case it in.
The real question is this: Do I print the pages? Do I leave them blank and make a journal instead? Do I have enough to make a finished book? Do I wait until I have enough?
I’ve come to despise writing in a fashion. It takes so long to perfect. A simple story is bad enough. A novel is a nightmare.
I think I’m going to do a book of Fairytales. A book of finished things. It pains me to wait. So I will continue to paint in the meantime. And if I truly mean to finish a book of finished things I had better set a word quota, so that sometime soon I can put it together.
I am not really a perfectionist–and writing demands perfection. This may be why I’ve come to despise it.
But it may be something else too. Perhaps I’m trying to combine what I’ve already mastered–art and hand construction—with something I have yet to master–writing.
If a novice were to sit down and mimic my painting style–which is in some ways meticulous–it would be very frustrating. It’s not as free and loose as a beginning watercolorist must be in order to learn to paint.
I do see the folly in my thinking.
It’s all for the worse when you can see how wrong the course is you want to set.
Maybe I should just set aside my big ideas and think smaller. Make a blank book or two and until the newness of the idea gets out of my system.
This isn’t really about publishing, you understand. If it were, I’d be hot on doing two things–either sending out query letters or prepping an ebook. After writing a bunch more, of course.
No, this is something entirely different. I’m trying to solidify my ideas. To test a theory. To see if this is want I want to say. To find out if this is the way I want to say it.
Time on earth is limited. I have to make some decisions. I doubt I have time to do everything I’d like–who does?
I can’t decide if this is worth my time. I keep coming back to it. But maybe it’s just a bad relationship. Don’t we tend to love the ones who spurn our overtures? Maybe trying a little harder until we find out it’s all for naught?










