A while back I read another writer’s impression of publishing a book: it’s like carrying a bucket of water to the sea. There’s something so perfect about that analogy. The loneliness, the hope, the utter unnecessity of the act. In an ocean of words and ideas, characters and phrases and stories, each of us has only a bucket to contribute. And once we pour out our offering, what is left but an empty plastic pail, waiting to be filled again, one drop at a time.
Does it ever bother you? Having put everything you have into a piece of work, do you ever feel a pang of regret that there’s already so much out there, and your hard-won bucket of words is as puny and insignificant as a bubble on the surf. Or do you revel in the idea of being part of the conversation, maybe only a small part but it doesn’t matter. You’re in there. And after all, the beaches are yours to enjoy whenever you want to take a dip.
How do you feel about the size of the ocean?