The work on my third novel about a Chinese philosopher continues on pace. It was not my intention to take up a third book while leaving the last two in limbo awaiting editorial review. The need to dabble and write, though, was strong. My happiness depends on it. Plus, I had the shell of something in place which is easier, I suppose, then starting from scratch.

All three books, in fact, began as shells over a decade ago. Very little was good. Most of it was terrible. But the shells spoke to something bigger. There was something there. It just needed time. But that’s a risky proposition, because time is something we don’t have.

What was I waiting for?  I don’t know. And yet there is no way I could have written these same books back then. As surely as I could not write them ten years from now when my interests turn to other things.

Unlike the first two books, Chou-Li feels like a wonderful trip down memory lane, meeting a childhood friend who hasn’t changed one bit. It’s a style of writing so familiar and yet so foreign to me. I am forced to rediscover lost parts of my personality and humor. Was this the way I really wanted to write? I can’t say.

I think that is why it is best to never bury our worst writing. Share it. Read it out loud. Listen to its voice, the lilting manner and lyrical quality. And if it sounds wrong, that’s only because it isn’t right. Not yet.  But knowing that is why we are writers.

I take full responsibility for my bad writing. I alone bear the shame of its terrible execution and garbled syntax. It’s not a surprise. I wrote to my ear. Still do in fact. Writing is musical to me. The pace and melody reign supreme. Imagination, filling in the spaces come later as an afterthought.