A visiting friend is sitting in my living room reading the book-in-progress. Coincidentally, it touches upon some of the same things we’ve been talking about…the moment one sits under a star-filled sky and knows—not surmises, not feels, not guesses—that there is no difference between it and you.

A big thing to attempt for a book. Especially if one is committed not to being the end of Kubrick’s film 2001.

What comes after this, one wonders? Where does one go after one has examined everything?

That’s the question, isn’t it? In trying to describe one of the next two books I’m thinking of writing, one is simple (the sequel to The Spiritkeeper), and one is more difficult. The second one I can describe in two words—although I won’t do that here. Yet, a greater question lay beyond it:

What bigger thing is the book about?

Sure, the two-word description is intriguing. Convenient. It’s a terrific sound-byte. But, as an idea, does it pick me up and carry me on its shoulders? No.

Books, for me, need to be ruled by themes of cosmic importance. Sure, the little byte is what it seems to be about…but where from there? What greater truth does the work tell? What subject matter does it explore?

I wonder sometimes whether I’m smart enough for the task I’ve set myself. Or wise enough. Or talented enough. I always wonder that. Perhaps that moment of doubt is what prepares our canvas for the paint to come. Perhaps it’s what puts the brushes in our hands.

I wonder whether we might write a grain of sand into something extraordinarily bigger.

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