Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Ran into a friend at the park last night when I had Rojo and Flicka there after dinner. It's not really a park, it's the public school playground near our house. It doesn't really matter except that everything matters in a nothing matters way. That's really the point. Right?
Friend said, "How's your book?"
"Pulled it," I said, one hand on Flicka giving her an absent minded pet.
"Self publish," she said, while deftly grabbing her escaping toddler with one hand.
"Good idea," I said, and if publishing it were now the objective, I'd consider that. "Thing is, don't really want it published after all."
She looked at me quizzically, as if to say, wasn't that the point of writing it?
And that was the point. Until it wasn't. Until the point became something else. Until the point stopped being to have everyone and their mother read it. Until the point was that just writing it was enough.
"Turns out it was just a really long way to get back to where I started. Spent years and years, lots and lots of money, turned myself and everyone around me inside and out, then got back to where I began."
Her eyes turned up in a now-I-get-it way.
"Full circle," I said.
"Full circle," she said.
And we laughed.
* Photo from: www.barbarabartlettart.com/circle_FullCircle