So
Amazon has published my little thriller, BYLINE. My East Coast writing buddy
Susan has posted a five-star review, the friends have expressed support and
congratulations, and a few copies have been sold.
After
reading and re-reading manuscript, proofs and revised proofs, I am a little
tired of my own opus, especially when I find typos and things I could have done
better. It’s not as if I thought I was writing about eternal verities or
anything, but I thought I’d be more thrilled to have my shout-out living its
own life.
Twice
this week I’ve talked with a reporter from our local newspaper, which will be
running an interview about the book this week. She is young and pretty, but she
has written for the paper 26 years, she said. Both of us have always loved to
write and have tried pretty much every way of putting words together.
She
wanted to know how I jumped back and forth between playing the piano and trying
to write news stories, poetry and fiction. I had to think about it, because
certainly it seems that I flit from one thing to another, halfway between doing
paying work and indulging myself.
In
newswriting and music program notes, I thought, you tell about something. In
fiction, of course, you try to show rather than tell. In poetry, you play with
the musicality of language, and in music you deal with the musicality itself. “But
what do they have in common?” she asked, knowing, of course, the answer.
Sue
and I correspond almost daily about our current writing projects, but it was
lovely to sit at the table and chat with someone else who thinks wordsmithing
is worth while.
The
reporter and I reached a comfortable silence. We looked out the window at
Montara Mountain. “It’s great living near the ocean,” she said, “but I have to
confess that I’m really a mountain kind of girl.”
