by Rachel Creager Ireland
What will become of us? Our author has not opened our file in weeks. We thought it was because of the holidays, but they are off in the world of memory now. She has perused blogs about publishing, ignored offers of connection with some published novelist somebody knows, started a new blog with an intentionally limited audience. We see her daily work at clearing emotional baggage, as well as struggling to clear unnecessary material possessions. Then she gives in to obsession with the latest Dan Simmons novel, which she got for Christmas. Oh Rachel, will you ever fly over your unseen obstacles, like Aenea and Raul Endymion and A. Bettik paragliding over the cloud-obscured boiling acid ocean of planet T’ien Shan? Will we, your characters, your alter egos, your virtual children, ever be liberated from your private files? Will the Post Rock Limestone Caryatids, the Winnies, the Sisters of the Star, the squatters of Manhattan, Kansas ever see our stories told? Will Maeve Wolf, Starla Winnie, Valeriana Glitch, Melchisedek Weaver, and Cal see their names printed upon a page?
She appears to be waiting, but no one is sure for what. We wait too.