How to finish the book. It seems close to being done sometimes. My fatigue in the evening drains me of incentive. Weekends are my only respite since I have a day job to sustain throughout the week. I must keep trying.
Annie Dillard claims a book often takes years to complete. I know there are themes everywhere, enough for more than one good story.
Writing comes from my core being which, with fragments of childhood persona lingering, is constantly changing year after year. Reading the draft after a lengthy absence reflects evidence of the shifts in perspective that time can bring. I wonder if painters feel the same way. Does a painting remain a work that is satisfactory years later?
At what point does the writer become the voice that endures or is it the story that lives? Would Maya Angelou look back at her early work and wince? Before her death she had written so many wonderful stories that seemed to simply need telling. It wasn’t necessary to add any moralizations or philosophical insights. Each story told itself.
Whatever else I do, being creative satisfies a deep longing to bring a version of truth into being. Whether or not another living being reads anything I write, although that is desirable, doesn’t really matter. I will write anyway and trust that if I just keep swimming the next moments will be there.