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Let there be light. That’s what fiat lux means. I don’t know where I read it but the Latin expression inspired me to curate my new collection of odd stories—“Nomads”—using Latin words and aphorisms as headings, though I haven’t decided what they should be as yet, or how the stories will fall into each section. I am having fun figuring this out before the tedious copy-editing work begins.
Walking on the High Line, admiring the plantings and the view of the Mighty Hudson the other day before the end-of-summer turned into SUMMER here in New York, a writer friend suggested that I divide the collection into sections if only as a courtesy to the reader, and though there will be some who disregard these divisions, no matter, it is still a courtesy. So I set to work.
Fiat Lux. I love those two words, the sound of them, and the implications. Doesn’t every writer suffer from the delusion that we are illuminating life in some way and that others will agree that we have done so? And we persevere in this delusion with every new work—always our best, is it not?—until we begin the next project. Suddenly we realize there is more to say and we must try to say it better. And it’s odd that when we return to old work—which is what I have been doing all summer (small s)—there is always the sensation that either it is not good enough, or it is brilliant, that I have let in the light. Who can say? Not I.
Walking on the High Line, admiring the plantings and the view of the Mighty Hudson the other day before the end-of-summer turned into SUMMER here in New York, a writer friend suggested that I divide the collection into sections if only as a courtesy to the reader, and though there will be some who disregard these divisions, no matter, it is still a courtesy. So I set to work.
Fiat Lux. I love those two words, the sound of them, and the implications. Doesn’t every writer suffer from the delusion that we are illuminating life in some way and that others will agree that we have done so? And we persevere in this delusion with every new work—always our best, is it not?—until we begin the next project. Suddenly we realize there is more to say and we must try to say it better. And it’s odd that when we return to old work—which is what I have been doing all summer (small s)—there is always the sensation that either it is not good enough, or it is brilliant, that I have let in the light. Who can say? Not I.