Every day in Trump’s America the line between fiction and fact becomes effaced. Not that that’s any excuse for neglecting my fiction, in fact it seems as good a reason as any to press on with it. I’ve got a non-fiction book under contract and that keeps me away from my mistress Muse in the “fake news” world.
It’s too bad, really. I’ve got a seventh novel well under way and I’ve got a potential publisher considering one (at last) for publication. The thing is, for a man being published is about the closest you can come to giving birth. Months of gestation, after having seeds planted inside, and perhaps then you have something to say. Something that will grow up beautiful.
As someone who has written literally millions of words, I’m always amazed at how difficult it is to find others who want to read them. The internet’s a crowded place. My daily commute to and from work forces me offline for a few hours a day, and it is a bit of a learning experience to cradle a book like holding somebody else’s baby.
Since my writing time is limited, and I have a non-fiction book with a deadline, I have to let the fiction go free for a while. 2017 has been the slowest publication year I’ve had in fiction since 2009. I simply haven’t had time to get the stories submitted. They’re still coming—I wrote one just last weekend. But who has time any more?
I’ve read that the earth is slowing down in its rotation speed. I personally think it’s speeding up. My bus schedule hasn’t changed, but since last year I have even less time than I used to. I keep thinking that vacation time will come and it will stop and I’ll have a chance to catch up. Then a non-fiction contract lands on my desk.
It’s not that I’m complaining. The boundary between fiction and fact barely exists at all.