When I was a young, dreaming of becoming a writer of science fiction and fantasy, I wanted my work to be a gift for readers like myself, who found awe and wonder in paperbacks adorned with spaceships and surrealistic alien landscapes. I expected that remunerations from my honest labor would also support me in a grand style. I imagined myself living in a beautiful place, with a woman I loved, with the ability to travel anywhere and have experiences that would make my writing even better!

Now, on a blustery spring day, I sat peacefully and a heard a wind chime singing “this is the life.” I had the feeling that the wind chime’s song had been performed just for me.

If you thick about it, a device with even one resonating tube activated by moving air cannot repeat itself musically. Though tones may appear similar, the specific and unpredictable variables of humidity, temperature, air pressure and the changing dynamics of the wind itself decree that the performance be unique to each listener.

In my youth I naively imagined just the right people would hear the “songs” I would write, an audience of a few dedicated millions. Now, as I begin to revise and finish the numerous novels that I always wanted to write,  I’m that wind chime, not knowing who will catch my drift.

They say that someone always hears. But does that person know that the song is just for him? Or her?

To be heard is enough.



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