The mind is a mystery wrapped in an enigma.
When I was younger, and I don’t know how young–but not old enough to walk myself to the library that was only about 12 blocks away, so maybe 9ish?–my mother would drive me to the Holgate library and leave me there. I was, I remember, researching a book I wanted to write.
I was enamored with The Last Unicorn, and especially the unicorns trapped in the ocean waves by the bull. I wanted to write the story of how they got there in the first place. I understood that I’d be writing a story, but I wanted to back it up with facts, even then. After reading some informative passages from A Natural History of Dragons and Unicorns, I decided that Hawaii would be a good place for the unicorns to be from, and the possibility of eruptions could be a good reason for their having to leave.
What’s crazy is that years later I would meet the author of that natural history, and not even know it. I’ve been birding with Paul. His good friend Linda has been a wonderful supporter of my work. I’ve never realized until tonight that he wrote that book I loved so much as a kid–that inspired me to not-write my first full-length book. Because of course, I didn’t write it. I researched it for hours over several weeks or maybe even months and then something else captured my attention. I have never been a finisher. I remember my fifth grade social studies teacher wasn’t going to pass my on to sixth grade unless I turned in an incredibly late report on coatimundis. I never did.
That’s all I’ve really got: I can’t believe Paul wrote that book (and like 70 others), and I still have never written even one.