A friend told me the other day that the novel she just finished was not the one she wanted to write. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that the sound we hear as we tap, or type, or scribble? The sound of our own heartbeat, and maybe we’re panting a little, maybe even sobbing, as the words get away from us yet again, and the story runs away with our soul?
A crappy deal, whichever way you look at it.
Eight weeks ago I was thrown into the deep end of a course I’d never taught before (not exactly) in a community college I’d never been to, with seven students I didn’t know. We met every Wednesday night between 6 and 8 pm, after work, hungry and tired, in an empty boardroom somewhere in the…
I am going to concentrate on getting ready for the conference today. It’s called Tin House and it’s in Portland, Oregon. And although I was born in Ca, I live in Sydney, Australia, and I haven’t been to the Northwest since I was a baby. It’s a big thing. Not just the travel, but also…
250 words down and it settles in. A great calm. A sea of words to keep me afloat. I stop looking for land.
The most important life skill is to learn to be loved. If, like me, life has taught you otherwise, and that you are unlovable, you had better unlearn in three, two, one. We’ll do it together. Now. Today is the day. Whatever it takes. I am with you. Fight Club, Glee Club. I’ll be over…
Truman Capote likened the finishing of a novel to taking your child into the back yard and shooting it. As a parent, I’m intrigued by the mind that could have created that sentence. Still, I take his point. I was all but undone by the completion of my previous novel, cried for days, became physically…
Is is just me or does Allen Ginsberg sound suspiciously like Dr Zoidberg? Oh nevermind.
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