Horses in Mid Stream

I love epiphanies. I am devoted to them and celebrate their arrival the way a good Catholic might the appearance of Mother Mary in a tortilla. But epiphanies usually mean one thing: Change.

Ultimately, I'm in favor of change. Ultimately, of course, I don't have a choice in the matter, as life itself is nothing but change, the words being more or less interchangeable. But this is speaking metaphysically. In the nuts and bolts day to day, you can always dig your heels in and do your best not to be dragged along life's ceaseless current. Good luck with that, by the way. This is the sort of thing that leads to back pain and cancer.

I digress. I had an epiphany the other night. The novel I had been calling The Prince of Despair for more than a year would now be called The Teacher. It was absolutely the right thing to do, for reasons too technical to get into here, and for about an hour I was joyous. I'd seen the light.

But no, it was more than that. A door had been opened, letting in light, and now I had to walk through that door. How much easier to dwell in the darkness you know than to walk alone into some foreign light. Yet walk I must now. Now I must write a new query letter; now I must let go of something I called the Prince of Despair, which, because of my particular biography, had a certain romantic appeal.

When the epiphany came, I knew it was the right thing to do. But then the sunburst of thought dimmed and I was left with myself again. These things may come to you, but the truth remains that it is up to you and you alone to allow the idea in and live from it. The idea, after all, doesn't tell you where you'll go, it just tells you that go you must.

So go I will.