Yesterday afternoon, still dazed from having released One Hand Clapping, I was paging through my proof copy when I happened on this entry for April 13, 2004. It explains a lot, I think:
The simple truth is, I haven’t written enough. I have written quite a bit in a fairly short amount of time, but I feel strongly that most of my work remains undone. If I were to die today I wouldn’t be ashamed of what was accomplished; but if I were to go on living for many more years and I didn’t continue writing, I think I would be ashamed. I will definitely not retire. I might be forced to retire due to poor health, blindness, or the further erosion of my faculties, but until that happens I plan to work. The work might include more than writing. It could branch off into music, painting, film, or photography. Along the way, I might even learn patience, which in itself is an art. Somehow, I have to learn to express what needs to be expressed in a language as powerful as that spoken by flowers and understood by bees, or as spoken by the wind and understood by the smallest blade of grass. I don’t want to spend my whole life hitting people over the head with a hammer, as I so often do. I want them to gently take the hammer from my hand and — hit themselves with it. Then I know I will die a happy man.
In the Forum: warped and swollen from a recent thunderstorm.