It's a "hieroglyphic world," Newland Archer reflects in "The Age of Innocence," "where the real thing was never said or done, or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs."
That says a lot about my own life. Not because I grew up in that world, but because at some point I made it that way. So much of my communication has evolved into that rarefied hieroglyphic form that it almost doesn't work at all with other people. I have a hard time saying exactly what I want or what I mean sometimes. It may be perfectly coded and clear to me, but no one else can see it. I live with my own private dictionary inside my head.
I wonder sometimes if I will ever be able to write that novel, if I will ever be able to communicate my vision to the rest of the world. Learning other languages has helped some, but not enough. Ironic, how communication is so precious to me and how I'm often so inept at it.
Right now I'm putting some consideration into doing the national novel month thing. I suppose I've told enough people thatI have to attempt it now. Mostly I just want to tell Meier's story, because Meier is the closest thing I'll ever have to a child. He doesn't frighten me because he could always speak, and I could understand every word.
It will be a good story.
