Last weekend I went to Brooklyn to visit two of my sons (the musician and the writer). We were flaneurs. We flaneused. (That should be a word.) We walked, and talked, and laughed. We ate and drank. (oh, did
we they drink) It was a wonderful, non-touristy weekend in the city.
On our seven-mile journey each day, we slipped into several indie bookstores. Little bits of heaven, each one. I would rather be surrounded by books than jewels. But here’s the thing: Being surrounded by so many fantastic novels made me feel conflicted. Part of me shouted, Why bother writing, Karolyn? Why work so hard to add one more drop into this ocean of literature? Will it even be noticed?
The other side of me whispered, Go home and write.
Funny how a whisper can overpower a shout.