I’ve been trying not to think about the novel, working on a dream blog instead. Part real, part creative, it is a platform where I can create little wispy observations and stories that read as if the voices were coming from 50ft above my head. Largely abstract and experimental, these cloudy creations are fun to work on, even when I can’t get them to sound the way they look in my head. Released from the pressure of the novel, I’ve rediscovered the enjoyment of writing for myself. I don’t have to worry about agents or advance fees or whether I am too inaccessible or boring. I can free form until I shape something I’m satisfied with and if someone doesn’t like it… well, that’s not really the point. I could almost be happy doing this forever. A physical book with my name on the cover has not stopped being appealing. There is just something mysterious and kind of sexy about private writing; knowing that most of you will never read these little stories and that they belong only to me. Not that I want to keep you at arm’s length, but I think I’m still rebelling against the idea that my every thought and word belongs to an audience. I hope that doesn’t sound too selfish. or that you feel I am cheating on you with another blog. I am, but there is room in my heart for all of you. When it comes to private vs public, I think a writer needs to straddle both.