Melancholia is a necessary part of the swing and sway of everyone’s life, — but the author is especially susceptible to the dangerous wants of the warp and woof of melancholy.
Why is this so and where does that tempting blue pit hide its warrants?
Every new project begins in fear and ends in death.
An author always wonders if their idea is ever full enough or sustainable enough to engage an outside mind; then, when the process is over, the divinity of creating new life on the page ends in the quiet and small death of the author’s hopes and dreams as the final period is placed on the page.
Where once worlds were created to serve universes — now there is only the darkness of a final, woodsong, ending and the darkening tomorrow of starting the process all over again.
Authors are life-givers. They imitate. They call out. They cry in the light for the comfort of the darkness.
Writing creates light that can only be seen in the dark — and it is the author’s duty and melancholic station — to bring that spark into daylight and define, provide resonance and imbue partiality and meaning in the context of the everyday life.