Jockk Brand vs. the Man at the Top of the Stairs  and Other Men Hiding in the Shadows in the Garden Evening. Icy Cafe, Street of the Monkeys, Phom Phen. Op-ed 

I might have been better on a hilltop in Nepal

Introduction: Dag Walker is an amazing writer traveling the world, who currently finds himself in Quito, Ecuador, where he enjoys the beautiful weather far from his own home– in North America. In the mountains and hills of his current residence, he finds time, and solace to contemplate writing and structuring his thoughts as he pound ideas we need in a world that seeks to self destruct, writing that he is “hopeful”! Walker wrote this short essay as— a reflection of what writers go through before they get published, but also as an admonishment to the quiet, lonely ,long nights and days at his writing desk. His essay is also penned for writers both young old trying their best to see their manuscripts in print, not to give up.   —- Cherbo Geeplay, poet

I know almost nothing about the man sitting at the next table on the rooftop here in Quito, Ecuador. I can’t claim to know much about the world. I know myself only slightly. Any opinion I might express about anything is practically worthless. I could live on this block in this city for a hundred years and not know much about my neighbors. It’s time to accept that I just don’t know much, and then to move on to live my own private life.

In a day or so, my tenth book might finally have an Introduction. I await the fifth draft of this short essay. My “three week novel” is now past three years and eight months in the making. It is about the state of our world. I might have been better off using that time to bonefish in the Florida everglades. I might have been better to have sat on a hilltop in Nepal

As soon as the introduction to this novel is finished, off it goes to Dionne Pelan for her to complete the final steps on the way to publication. The final result is likely to be the same as that of the previous books I’ve published.

I have some hope that my writing efforts will satisfy those few who read the work. I find that I really don’t know much, but that I write about the world in the hope that I know something more than nothing. It’s just one book, like one grain of sand that in its small way adds to the beach of literature. One grain missing or added means not a thing to the whole. Still, one lives with the givens of life. Life is private. Whether we know the life of the man next to us or not, it is still a life to live; in ignorance or not, it is still of some value. I hope this novel, small as it is, will be of interest, a grain of almost nothing or not.

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