Since the debut of my first novel, readers have been curious
about when my next book will be finished. “Have you started it yet?” What’s the
topic?” or most frequently, “You MUST
write a sequel. In theory, I like the idea of a sequel, but I’ve spent so many
hours in the minds of my characters It feels like it’s time to let them go. So
what then? I have other ideas for novels. In fact, I have a list of story ideas
I’d like to bring to life some day but none of them resonate for me at this
moment… maybe down the road.
My niche is fiction. Stories about the intricacies of
relationships within families, especially families who have overcome some
hardship and evolved in a meaningful way. The endings are not always happy
endings, they are real to life in the sense that some of my characters overcome
and others are lost. In this way, I guess art for me is a real reflection of
life.
But lately I’ve been gravitating toward a different genre of
writing. I am seriously considering a work of nonfiction. Non-fiction is not my
strength, yet I am suddenly drawn to it. This work would be a memoir of sorts
in that it would depict an aspect of my personal life and how it has impacted
my family these past few years. I’m not ready to disclose the details just yet
since I am still trying to sort out how to approach it. I have years of journals
to draw from, a chronology I drafted, research at hand in the form of medical
and legal documents and my own up close and personal account. When I look back
over my life, it seems as if I’ve been preparing for this project for quite
some time yet have only recently come to realize it. Or perhaps life itself has
been preparing me… has chosen me.
Do we choose how we express our art or is it the muse,
Source, universe or whatever you want to call the Giver of Light. In other
words, are we choosing or are we chosen? If chosen, dare I say no?
