"Great Northern", my latest attempt at writing a good story, has just surpassed 215 (some very rough) pages. Being an artist who is accustomed to the idea that what I do by myself is supposed to be finished by myself, it's difficult to realize the extent of editing that occurs in a traditionally published work of prose. It's my baby; I don't want to let it soar (or flop) out of the nest until it's perfect. I don't want anybody to read it until it has the wings I give it. I don't want anybody critiquing or giving advice, because that's not the way I learned to create. Artists, then, must be different than writers. I make what I make while "arting". It is what it is and when it's done it's done. But writing--that's another story entirely. I wonder why I waste my time, writing for hours and days and months and years to create a world that no one will ever see. Because it makes me happy, I suppose.
At bottom, it's what we humans do: we tell stories. And when we're gone, where do they go, and do we need to care?