My dear friends.
I am in a tiny village, the southwest of France, in the Pyrenees. This part of the Basque country is a world of mountains, Godliness and height. Believe me, being here clothed in silence and creative thought makes life expansive. I do not feel insignificant.
Every day, I write.
Ideas and words and plots and characters and travel memories fill pages; that accomplishment binds me to my desires–I am doing what I love.
Thank you for your letters and stories. I read them, reread them; they are full of passion. You write well, my friends. Yes, I agree, suffering shows itself in many ways, sometimes it is unkind, but be forever aware, it is an integral part of the struggle to lay out the narrative. For me, the struggle sinks into the soul, severe, it stays, leaves of its own accord.
I concur, a writer must, under all circumstances, write the truth, and write it well. It takes courage to write from the heart and not be overly concerned how others interpret the work. We must stay strong, my friend, for there are no protecting miracles for us writers.
From my room, through a clear window pane, I watch the big yellow butterfly. Observe it flutter about, see it upon different flowers. It rests longest on what captivates, does not take too much. Time of the butterfly’s visit is never overly stretched for there is an intimate balance between its stay and the giving of the flower. We must strive for such balance, balance between our work and the pleasure of the reader.
I would like to add, at the confluence my publishing and its eager acceptance by the public there was joy. My writing and the happy reader became one, became like the single stream of water that flows beside my cabin. Yes, it is like a good deed that is indubitably part of the man who performs it–there is no shadow.
Keep writing good friends.
As always,
Peter.
