At the moment, I am in an oddly happy place in my writing. I have another 60-80 pages to go in the first draft of Book One of my science fiction trilogy, Anori. I am fairly certain how the book will end – and then leading into the next – and have done the heavy lifting of the narrative to get to this point. I only have to bring the story together with a final series of events that will lead Dee away on her great voyage. And it all seems so clear and whole…and yet I wait and procrastinate the work. Yes, I am a victim of my inertia-loving self. But it also seems more than that. There is a feeling that I don’t want to lose, being in something that just might never end, being safe in this eternal-seeming thing.
There is a wide and open road behind me, most of it clear, and then the world ahead, knowing sharp bits, dreaming of them on their own, letting them hover high in my head, not grabbing, tying anything down. It is too final to do that, pointless, leading only to a barren landscape. While I know that there is always Book Two – and then the Third – this book, this journey I don’t want to end. I like the edge, broiling up on the crest, anticipating, arching ahead with that, and dream of staying until I can’t take it anymore.
“… Until I can’t take it anymore” – sounds like a joke about hell I heard.
Heaven or hell.