My good friend from college (university) days back in Pennsylvania is a constant source of joy. We seem to have many areas of empathy, and the primary one is now in the realm of ageing.
One of the great things about feedback in this blog is that I get to re-consider the thoughts I’ve had, as refracted back to me by readers. I remember how valued the comments were when Allendale Diary was being constructed. This blog is less labour-intensive, more of a musing sort of pastime, than the daily task of a year-long diary. Astute readers will have noted already that I regularly take a break on Sundays, but this past week has been a bit hectic with the mini-move and furnishing of our new ‘holiday cottage’, which may or may not be our eventual downsized permanent residence. So I’ve missed a day or so, here and there. But the comments are always devoured, and relished.
There’s such a huge amount of thought that goes into some of the comments, that I’m humbled. To think that my few musings could elicit such careful consideration! But at the same time, I also feel exhorted to continue; while writing, just like thinking, is an end in and of itself, it’s certainly enhanced by feedback.
Today my friendly beta reader will probably reach the last chapter of my third novel. Thereafter, she may finish the story, and the appendices, by the end of tomorrow. Probably she’ll feel that she must offer constructive comments, encouragement and good criticism, or I won’t be able to take her seriously. Deep in my anticipated post-creative tristesse mind-set, I can’t quite believe that anything I’ve done is worthwhile. I’m supposed to be looking ahead to my next project, the historical fiction set a century ago. But I can’t even begin to get going on that before I really lay the trilogy to rest.
On the one hand, I could be happy that I’ve finished my project, and just let it be, delighted in the fruition of an ambition. But on the other hand, I crave the consideration of intrigued readers, consideration that can feed back into a more enlightened writing capacity, that could help the book to sing. And that’s where I’m at, personally, as I sit and wait, patiently.
It’s a funny time, either on the cusp of completion, or needing just that extra push to finish things off with finesse. We shall see what transpires, but meanwhile I shall try to practise the virtue that patience itself is meant to be.