I began officially writing “Lin Finity And Her Mayhem Rising” on May 22 of 2018. I had some ideas for the story before then, but I didn’t really dive into it until that Tuesday evening, when I wrote 2,822 words. About two months later, the first draft had grown to over 70,000 words and was nearly done. Of course it would take many months to get it to where it is now, since a first draft, from what I’ve read and learned, is rarely ready to be published.
The question I’ve asked myself many times serves as the title of this essay, which is my first post for my first blog to accompany my first novel. That’s a lot of “firsts” for a fellow who’s…oh…a little bit north of his thirties.
It’s a fair question, although likely impossible to answer in any definitive way. But it’s worth a try.
What started as a fun side interest, a “what if…” kind of thing, has turned into an activity that, right now, I can’t imagine ever not being a focus in my life. This novel is Book One in a series named “Fringes Of Infinity.” The first draft of Book Two is complete and needs only to be polished up. Book Three has already drawn in a lot of my conscious and unconscious thoughts. So it seems I’m determined to devote much of my time, ambition and passion to writing.
But why now?
Like all of us, my life has wandered in many unplanned and, sometimes, unwanted directions. In a backward-looking snapshot view, my past can appear as a swirling storm that scooped me up, spun me around and dropped me here today. And if even one of those “unwanted” directions had been avoided, where would the storm have dropped me? Who would I be?
Looking to the past, I see signs of what led me to begin writing, to gravitate toward an outlet for creative expression. As a child I learned how to play a musical instrument and would practice for hours, lost in the feeling of merging with the music, to the point where favorite pieces seemed to have their own personalities. But I let that fall to the side as life’s urgent demands took my time and attention. There was the pleasure of reading great books, and even mediocre books, in a variety of genres…when there was time. In recent times reading has seemed to be not just a luxury, but an “unproductive” use of my time. And even in my current work of designing test hardware and experimental systems, I’m always grateful when the task requires some creativity, seeking an answer that can’t be found in a textbook.
A common element to these few interests that I’ve listed is that they have at their core something abstract, something that can’t be defined. Music – the profound effect it can have on us, without a single word. Novels – a string of words that can take us to places that don’t exist, to know characters who we’ll never meet, living lives that would have gone unnoticed if it weren’t for the book. And designing things – not that my ideas have been all that special, but where does any creativity originate?
It’s more than that, though. Every person whose path has crossed mine, whether briefly or for a longer journey together, has touched my spirit and shaped me in ways that I can’t fully understand. Each has changed me and each has changed my direction, even if only slightly. If we think of our lives as a series of movements that can be drawn on a map, it becomes obvious how each step has been absolutely necessary for us to arrive here, today, being who we are. Change your course in any small way, at any time in your past, and you’re somewhere else. You’re someone else.
One of my goals in writing, or perhaps in choosing the stories that I have, is to capture some of the abstract all around us. In pursuing that, I put myself in a contradictory position – trying to convey with words something that can’t be said with words. Readers of the book can decide if they think I’ve come anywhere near that goal.
Who could ever share the feeling they get from a song that takes them back to a different time and allows them to relive what they felt back then? Can you define how you’re affected by a good book, a favorite film, a poem, or even a memory of seagulls crying over the crashing of waves, as you walked barefoot in the hot sand?
All of these experiences hit us somewhere inside, in ways we probably aren’t capable of understanding. When I reach the limits of what my mind can comprehend, when I’m confronted with the power of the abstract all around me, I feel I’m trying to see infinity. I believe our hearts and souls were made to seek it out, in whatever form we can. It’s there beyond what we can know, forever out of reach. But it calls to us. And we hear it.
Lin saw it clearly in the chapter “A Life Ending”:
“Then Lin understood: she was infinite. Her body, and the rest of the world, were only finite. How she longed for the freedom of infinity. So did everyone else, she knew. Every desire, every dream that anyone had – that was their hunger for the infinite. With every indescribable feeling they had from art, or religion, or love – they were being touched by infinity.”
Of course, Lin has a much different relationship with infinity than the rest of us!
I’ve been seriously writing for only about a year, and looking to the future, it’s surprising that I can no longer see a time where writing isn’t a part of it. Even if I sell only one or two books, that’s okay, because it’s the writing that matters most.
My hope is that anyone who reads the book enjoys it as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.