We all have a point of departure: when we chase or give up on the dream; when we commit to the effort and risks of attaining, or concede to commonality, which maybe is not so bad, but asks nothing of risk and effort and the potential for failure is certain, but less extreme. It doesn’t really matter because you never really cared.
I read a passage the other day about Faulkner, how he hid himself for years, pretending to be a common southern farmer; but in the end, he had to leave in order to write and become his purpose, creating the stories that were in him.
I’ve never finished a Faulkner novel. I’ve tried several times, but the passage hit me. Do we give up, accept oblivion? Or do we try, risk, create art and literature simply because it’s in us?
If feeling’s known, each of us settle—or decide—answer for ourselves. I want to write literature, not just vignettes and repetitions of the same.
I have spoken to the Universe, an audience of few. Now I must make due and begin labors that manifest the dream.