I understand the difficulties, the obstacles, there's such a deluge now with the opportunity for self-publishing. On the other hand, I know the writings have an impact enough to be published in literary magazines. And those who have read what I've written have expressed that they like what they've experienced. Very favorable responses have also come from those who've heard me read publicly.
Still I grieve. Blog entries. Social media entries. Public readings. Video readings. Synopses. Advertisements. It's so hard to find traction.
My protagonists, the characters I shape and fashion with respect for what they represent and undergo - they are older but have so many dimensions, so many perspectives, undergo the struggles and experiences that are unique to them, incidents drawn from the broad range of experience I've had, from social justice activism, to betrayals, to my own failings, joys, humor, clowning, frowning, agonies, injuries, afflictions, spiritual soarings, insights, befuddlement, ignorance, challenges, fears, tears, accidents, illnesses, leaps of hope and ecstasy, and it goes on.
So I write and publish and post here. I don't know what you think, nor do I know what to think about how it all works, how something catches on and reaches an appreciative audience, how it suddenly clicks.
Funny, though, as I write this, the words come, seem to represent what I'm feeling at the moment. I'm not sure I want to publish this, to put this up in this blog -- "blog," what it's called, an odd term to my ears.
But it can't be otherwise, even in the face of the possibility that it all remains in obscurity. I love to read and I love to write. And my sensibility sees a value in what's written. So why stop, I ask? It's an adventure of the mind, even if grief comes along with it.