December 27, 2005

The end of life, the beginning of a novel

A wanna-be writer decides at 35 that he’s ready. He’s accumulated enough experiences, and now it’s time to do nothing but write. He abruptly leaves the family he loves, quits his job, stops watching TV, and cuts off all contact with his relatives. He never goes out, never gets into another relationship, and never celebrates another holiday. For the next 40 years, he does nothing but write.

Is his work of any consequence? Does he regret rejecting life to follow some supposed purpose? Does he repent at the end? Does he eventually have to go back into the world for more material?

I don’t know. And I didn’t care enough about this particular idea to find out.

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