Glass Cathedral

I’m haunted by an image from Peter Carey’s novel Oscar and Lucinda: A cathedral made entirely of glass floats silently downriver on its way to a tiny Australian outpost. It’s meant to be an offering, a structure so perfect and beautiful that the two who created it will be vindicated, accepted back into the community that cast them out.

I've wanted to write a book as beautiful and perfect as a glass cathedral. But the simple act of asking a respected author for feedback has brought the castle crashing down. I doubt myself.  I am so fragile that the drop of a velvet hat on the floor of my glass cathedral can shatter it, lacerating my heart.