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Hello readers. It’s been a while.

I’m currently reading BOOK OF LIVES by Margaret Atwood.

I have to confess that I have not read very many of Atwood’s books. But every single title of hers that I have read has touched me profoundly. Odd that. It seems bizarre that I would not read every single book she ever penned after realizing how much I love her books that I have read. I think I know the reason, though. To be honest with you, LARGE TOMES scare me. As one of the world’s slowest readers, a big book feels like too large a commitment to me. I have a historied past of taking the easiest way out…of literally anything life throws at me. This includes reading. I’ll look for slender volumes to read and I’ll almost always eschew the tomes. I know this means I miss an awful lot of great reading. John Irving comes to mind here. I have also loved all of his books that I’ve read. BUT it seems as though there are always two or three novels hidden within the depths of each of his novels. If you’re a John Irving fan, I’m sure you’ll understand what I mean by this. There is a blurred line with his works. Take the total of all of his published novels and multiply it by 2 1/2, and that’s probably closer to the sum of novels that Mr. Irving has penned.

Side-note: a few years back Michael and I were at the TRANS MARCH in Toronto (we never miss an opportunity to show up for the T in LGBTQIA2S+). Who should walk right past us, marching away with all the trans marchers and supporters, but JOHN IRVING himself. I smiled, made eye contact with him, and swallowed every urge to run out into Yonge Street and hug him and take a selfie with him and beg him for a signature or some such nonsense. He was just a man quietly showing up to support the community. He marched alone…with a look of determination and showingupness. I’ll never forget that quiet moment. No fanfare, no need to tell the world, “It is I, John Irving!” Just a man marching for something he believed in.

By now I have almost forgotten what I began this blog post for…I am meandering again.

Back to (close to) the beginning.

I’m currently reading BOOK OF LIVES by Margaret Atwood.

In it, Atwood speaks of a book she wrote as a child. It was called Annie the Ant. It was such a success with her readers (her parents and brother), that she set about writing a sequel where Annie takes an adventure down a river on a raft. The young Miss Atwood soon lost interest and the sequel fell by the wayside.

Why do I mention this? Because this was one of Atwood’s first writing lessons in the memoir. It was a lesson for herself, as well as a lesson for any writers (or wannabe writers) who may read the memoir. It’s a lesson in moving on when a piece of writing is not working.

“If the ant on the raft isn’t working for you, it’s okay to stop.” ~ Margaret Atwood, BOOK OF LIVES.

I needed that reminder. Thank you, Margaret Atwood. This made picking up the gigantic tome of a memoir well worth it for me. This one sentence is worth the price of admission. We writers do hold on to ideas that become stale and stagnant and shrivel on the vine. Instead of trying to find a way to write ourselves out of the paper bag–the corner we have wedged ourselves into–there is indeed another option. As Ms. Atwood says, it is perfectly okay to stop. Move on to something else.

This is probably glaringly obvious when you look at it. But it’s also something so many writers don’t do. They’ll struggle to re-alive a dead cat (that’s an analogy. It’s not really a dead cat. It’s a story that has fizzled out and died. No cats have been hurt in the creation of this analogy.) rather than bury it.

It’s never a waste to give up on a piece of writing. Spending time with the craft is always beneficial, whether or not you use the bi-product of that spent time. If it’s not working…it’s okay to stop.

That is all.