In the middle of writing my fourth book, I get the feeling that I am enjoying it a little too much. Maybe I am creating the ‘Great American Novel’ for an audience of only one American. You know, like laughing at your own jokes, or singing in the shower, which never sounds bad. Maybe I am self-referencing and modulating the characters and stories to make my own tail wag. It’s hard to know. I don’t like sending out chapters for comment or asking someone to read a work half done, but is my enjoyment of my story a kind of insanity, a delusion of isolation? A world I created that has no relation to the world of the potential readers at large. Which begs the question, am I writing for some, quantifiable segment of society or am I writing for myself? Right now it feels like it’s totally for myself and my own amusement.
Oh wait, I have an editor! Whew, what a relief to have another human, not inside my head, who can give an objective opinion without my internal bias. Did I mention, God Bless editors?