The story I chose to tell, in Ax, was one I chose - beyond compelling fascination with Clovis I - partially because it has not been done to death. The truth is, it hasn't been done at all in American publishing; and the fact is, that mystifies me.
And yet ...
When I encountered someone recently online, whose own main characters is a seriously important one in Clovis' own life: I can admit, my initial response was one of irrational jealousy. He seems a nice guy. I'm not a total emotional basket case over my story. And it's possible I could even come to enjoy finding a neighbor in my little backwater space.
Plus, he didn't put Clovis front and center. So I don't have to be *too* jealous. Right? Heh.
I've been struck by how funny a sensation it is, though. You think you are alone - and suddenly the solitude is broken, the illusion gone.
And isn't that why we write at all? Composition: co, to be together, position, to put yourself there. I didn't want to tell this story because it could interest nobody else. And I didn't want to tell it only to myself.
Kind of cool. Kind of scary. Just like the rest of writing.
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