The Next Book

We don't need any new books, do we?

I used to go to Booksale about, oh, twice or thrice a week. Ever since the most recent deterioration of my eyesight -- thanks to the side-effect-laden BP meds prescribed by the sour-endocrinologist-I've-since-stopped-seeing -- I've had to give that up. I can still see the "low-hanging fruit" -- the big coffee table titles in the display window, the books stacked in front or on top of the bins -- but I can't really dig the way I used to, can barely see the spines, much less catch an attractively type-designed title from a distance.

I guess that's okay. I have too many unread books as it is. Of course I miss it though. It was a fairly reliable source of joy, and you need at least two or three of those in life to keep going, I think.

Writing is still -- or can be -- a joy. I suppose my books might be the most enduring things I will produce in this life. The thought of making more still pleases me, on the whole.

And then I think of the people for whom new books are just an excuse to hate or tear down or make themselves feel better by comparison, and I wonder, "Why bother?"

We don't need any new books, do we? Especially if they just end up being targets or paperweights.

But I can't help but still be excited about the idea of new or newly-discovered books. I now enjoy browsing through Amazon (not a great substitute for Booksale, but still). I look forward to the new Jonathan Carroll or Murakami, even if I haven't finished a Murakami since After Dark.

I still want to write things that at least people I love and respect will appreciate (and that might reach a susceptible stranger or two). There may be no point to it, ultimately, but for now, it's still something I want and try to do. And with the two new stories I finished this year, I think I finally have enough for a third book. So that's something. Or at least it's not nothing.

(Above: Possible cover study for my next book. Photo by Kidlat de Guia. Sadly, the blurb is bogus.)