The subject/title line is
not frivolous. There are writers who feel they have one book in them, and after
writing it (published or not) they have done the deed, had their say, and the
bucket is empty.
I had that feeling with my
first work intended for publication. A philosophical chapter book a la The Little Prince that I mistakenly
thought was a picture book.
I couldn’t imagine ever
writing another story. What more did I have to say?
No one offered to publish
it, and I choose not to re-read it ever again. Mostly because I know now it was
not ready for prime time by any measure, and I don’t want to be stuck in the
mental space that made me write it in the first place. The state that asserted
I have said it all.
It was a strange state
lasting a few months, and once I got through it, the faucet just kept running.
Sometimes it trickles and other times it gushes. But the game changer is that I
know I will never run out of stories worth telling.
Even when I can’t think of
any, I know they are there, just beyond the horizon, waiting for the rising sun
to reveal their shape.
It’s called being alive.