sunday

Coming across a recommended blog (recommended by WordPress),I was surprised to see an image of my second novel.  The writer had read it, to pass the time, she said, and described the plot.  She then said, possibly yawning, that there was little in it to impress her.  She moved on to talk about Isabel Allende.

Well, after my initial chagrin, I thought it was at least nice to see the cover there.  But her comment nagged.  Don’t we write to make an an impression?  It felt cold to be dismissed so quickly.  A friend suggested I explore this reaction in my blog.

The writer was herself writing a novel, and wanted help.  My impulse was to help her, offer some teacherly advice, with a sense that perhaps she would be surprised, not to change her opinion of the book, but to change her opinion of me.  No mater how often we are told to separate the writer from the story, the two get entangled.

Sunday has become Monday morning.  Two cups of coffee, and Van Morrison singing “Domino”–a good start.  The sun is now lighting the houses across the street–this music makes my typing rhythm change.

We tend to want praise for work produced.  Maybe it’s akin to drawing something and running to show Mommy.  Cooking an meal and being told it was delicious.  My mother, not hearing a word from us as we ate, would often say, “This is very good.”  When I think back to that, I think she was on the right track.  False modesty is just that: false.

Moralizing at 8am.  I probably have something better to do, like get ready for the day.

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