One day it hit me. I’d been playing with the idea of writing another book. Friends who had listened to my stories urged me to continue spinning tales. I couldn’t make peace, though, with the amount of time and energy and luck it would take to have another book come to light. Instead of painting and living a life worth writing about, I imagined myself assembling and posting countless manuscripts to the offices of disinterested publishers where they’d languish in a pile until someone had the time to send the rejection. Precious days of introspection and paint-pushing, quiet hours in nature, would be lost to futile stamp-licking and failure.
Then, my light bulb moment arrived. I could write the unending book. No stamps or rejection notices required. By adding a blogging element to my website I could launch an experiment that would chronicle my experiences and observations as an artist, a naturalist, and a woman. I imagined it beginning as a monologue, but hoped for the good fortune of future dialogue, people responding with their own wisdom, as they have to the writing I’ve done in the past. So, at this liminal moment in time, when our technology has exponentially outstripped our imaginative uses for it, I see this as the New Book. All it lacks is a brutal editor and a foreseeable ending.
As with all the best experiences in life, when one leaps out into the unknown, I wonder what this will bring and how it will evolve. Perhaps it will be a novel, perhaps a memoir. I’m sure, like my paintings, it will show me what it needs to be.