When I look out to sea, where the horizon meets the sky, I’ve wondered what would happen if I sailed in that direction. What would I find out there? Where would I be? Who would I become? Writing is such a similar experience. You have to allow yourself to sail, or be taken before the wind, out into deep water, out of the sight of land, out until all that exists are waves, sky, and a serrated horizon stretching in all directions. Would anyone be excited about what I saw there, far beyond any hope of help from human hands? Would anyone listen? What if I can never return? What if I find I don’t want to?

Such are the risks. No one speaks of them, but that does not mean they don’t exist.