The endless round of editing, pulling apart and putting back together continues. With writing, there’s always more to see than can ever be seen. More to do than can ever be done, in between life and work and the required commute and chores and sleep.

Writing is like reaching for the highly improbable, while abetted by believers in possibility.

If you’ve been following along, you may recall I had a collection of stories, then I started submitting them separately and got two published or accepted with more waiting. Now I’m once recollecting stories, giving them a spit and polish, and arranging them anew with my novella, for another opportunity. While opportunities abound, I’m not sure if I’m doing the textbook definition of that cliché about insanity being repeating the same action and expecting different results. It could be but there’s far too much to take in here.

As the joy from an acceptance or publication fades, like a long warm Autumn evening sinking into a darkness that premeditates winter, a searching restless desire returns. Writing is like a cup that could be overflowing, but is never quite full, the water inside is always churning, being drained as it is replaced. That’s the reward and also just a consequence. Thus the work goes on.

There are seasons in the circle of writing. This is the week of the winter solstice. A publication acceptance is required to light the dark.

To fill my cup, or sweeten the water, as it were, I’ve won a ticket to the Emerging Writer’s Festival criticism day, thanks to Writers Bloc, which I am a bit excited to attend. It’ll be nice to polish the old professional skills a bit with people in the sector (industry, area of expertise). It’s in the same spirit I’m attending the Degas exhibition preview and a curator lecture at the National Gallery of Victoria (NGV). Then I’ll go back to editing the collection, waiting for the emails, and little by little, through despair and hope, through faith and love….on the path unwinding, continue to trace the circle of writing.