Yesterday, Publishers Marketplace published an item about my debut novel, We Take Care of Our Own, in its “Deals” section.
Exciting stuff. A handful of old friends, family, and well-wishers have reacted in positive ways, which makes me feel good. This announcement helps make the whole silly project more real, maybe six or seven percent more real than it was the day before.
And then while I was thinking about writing and real-ness, I ran across an interesting passage in the novel I’m reading, Antonio Di Benedetto’s Zama (translated from the Spanish by Esther Allen), that posits publication is, for all intents and purposes, beside the point:
I write because I feel the need to write, to take what is in my head and place it outside. I will store the papers in a tin box. My grandchildren’s grandchildren will dig them up. Things will be different then.