RIP Me

As I assemble the bones of this site into something resembling a skeleton, I find myself with the odd hope that someday my survivors will post my death announcement here.

I think that a lot.  Or at least something like that.  Usually not so morbid.  But a death it would mean that this site is important.  

Every (okay, almost--there are always exceptions) novelist sits down and writes something intended for a broad audience than themselves.  Most of the time, that audience doesn't go beyond the single digits.  If they're very good, and lucky, they can catch an audience even bigger.  Even more rarely, they can keep it.

Even then, at the beginning, there was always just the audience of one.  And hope.

Most of my novels and short stories, from middle school on, ended up with the audience of one.  (Most are better off that way.)  I've read a lot about how writing a novel is an act of egoism, hubris, etc.  I'm less certain.  I would say that it's an act of intense, unearned confidence. 

It's only at this point in my career, with something exciting materializing ahead, that I realize how much of a blind leap it's been all along.

The thing about writing novels is that there's always another precipice to fall over, another leap to make.  I've never gotten used to it.  But I have the confidence, earned or unearned, to take the plunge.  So here we go.