This evening, in a house made too quiet by the absence of the rest of the family, I made the first notes in a blank notebook about the next novel I hope to write. A page of notes. As always when I start a project, I felt embarrassed to even be trying to make comments or frame sentences. God, this is stupid, I think. If anyone knows I wrote this they will think me such a lamer.
I might make a mistake.
I might write something dull and uninteresting.
The notes were written down in spite of the wicked insecurities.
Now why is that, one might ask, why not listen to the inner critic and put the pen down and tear that page out of the notebook? The answer is simple: because someone might be curious about my subject, or my writing, or me. Shall I push away that potential person because I'm afraid of not being "good enough" for him/her? Au contraire -- whoever that might be may want desperately to read more -- just as I did when I found snippets of my father's writing, just as I did when there were so few Thorne Smith novels, just as I did when I finished reading all the archy and mehitabel columns written by Don Marquis. I wasn't looking for great art, I just wanted to hear MORE.
So okay, MORE is on the way.