Sunday, December 6, 2015
5:20 a.m. Exactly one year since Rita came in. Miss Rita, anything to say to me this morning?
You know I do. You were expecting it.
Yes I was.
Don’t worry whether the book will sell or not, whether the information will travel or not, or even whether the remainder will be published or not. None of these things are within your control, and needless worry only saps your energy.
The question of commercial success is intertwined with that of “career” and I don’t know how to handle it. I am way too old to think of making a career.
I know. And you hear the ticking clock.
That I do.
And you wonder.
I do. But I guess we don’t have as much to say as I thought we might.
You are concerned again – as you were when we began, last year – about your audience listening over your shoulder.
I suppose I am. I don’t need to publish this, though.
Remember that Nancy pointed out that your absence from the internet might result from a decision, not only from death.
It’s true that I am beginning to feel a little distant, as if I could go for a while without checking facebook.
Attention directed one way precludes attention directed another way. Less time on facebook could mean more time in tranquil contemplation or in tranquil work on a novel, or painting, or anything or nothing.
All true. And I guess I’m being drawn that way.
No need to fight the attraction.
So were you wanting to tell me anything specific?
I just did. You aren’t an ox on a treadmill. When a routine dries out, try something else unless you are led to continue. I wouldn’t advise another set of Nevil Shute novels at the moment – eight in a week is quite enough, even for you – but there is a world of reading out there, and much of it is you own writing over the years, waiting for your last perusal.
A la Bronson Alcott.
There are worse examples. Your circumstances are not his but he could serve as example.