As screams in the void

What will be left of me when I’m gone? I know no one cares. I am but a scream in the void, and will be missed about as much.

It irritates me when I find a talented author, and they have but one work. Such is the case with the book I’m reading right now, Sins of the Flesh by Don Davis. There are multiple men named Don Davis and none of them ever wrote anything resembling this book ever again. This book was released 36 years ago. A distant scream in the void. He released it, I think with his son Jay Davis who also never released anything else.

I can’t help but feel that is to be my fate. I won an award for my writing in 2018. Perhaps 2018-2020 was my time. Maybe my time was 2012-2015. It’s definitely not right now. Now is a period of mourning, for covering the face and wondering what went wrong, for screaming into the void.

I keep thinking I’m going to write something good, but what, but what, but what. And what if it’s a flash in the pan and I become yet another of these once and only oncelers.

Who is Don Davis? We’ll never know. How can someone be content to plow into the dust like that?! Was he?

I really want to know. It makes it painful to progress, knowing there will never be any more. Perhaps he died writing it, and Jay had to finish the blasted thing. I could have the roles reversed, Jay could be the father.

There is so much decay and abandon in the world I live in. Then over there you have Stephen King and Dean Koontz both of whom are pumping out books with such regularity and volume that I have forbidden myself to try and keep up with them. It isn’t fair, there should be some equity in the world of horror novels.