In My Stupid Hat And Gloves, At Night I Lie Awake Wonderin' If I'll Sleep

This has been a rather odd writing year for me (because I was schooled in America, I consider the year to fall roughly between September and June, and because my work occurs in the publishing arena, I typically keep Summer hours in July and August so that I can go to the Hamptons, naturally, which is a longer drive than one might imagine when one lives in the California desert): for the first time in about five years, I didn't actively write a new book. I did re-write (as in, I threw out about half of it and did it all over again) my current novel on submission and wrote several short stories while trying to find two or three I liked enough to put in my collection, but nothing I worked on began with a blank screen and the expectation that 70,000 words later, I'd hit the print icon.

Today, however, I had a long conversation with my lovely wife and my lovely agent about the next two books I want to write, one nonfiction, one fiction and about the deep thoughts I've been having on both. It's a weird thing: it used to be that I just sat down and wrote whatever came to mind and if after 25 or 35 or 50 pages it happened to slam into a brick wall, I'd get depressed for a little while and then start with another idea. Now, however, I find that my gestation period has changed -- no longer do I write those great 37 page novels -- and that I spend a great deal of time thinking about my ideas for books and stories, waiting for that moment when it's impossible to continue the thinking without accompanying the thoughts with action.

For the last several nights, the thoughts have become words and images, bits of dialog, remembered conversations, smells, sadness, anger, hilarity and something I can't clearly quantify, only to say that it feels like electricity. And so when I finally talked about my ideas with my wife and my agent, the stories I attempted to distill into cute little loglines were both largely incoherent ramblings: words, images, bits of dialogue etc. "I'm not sure exactly what the story is," my agent said, "but I trust from your inability to articulate it that you do." Ah, sweet success.

Tonight, as I drove across the desert after class, it began to fall into place. How to begin. The first words. Maybe the last words. I was tempted to pull off the road and write it all down, tempted to call my voicemail and leave it all in a message, tempted to get home tonight and begin. All that empty space to fill up, I thought, I'll never have enough time unless I start tonight. I bet I could knock out twenty pages...but it's late and I know that in the morning I'll feel that same pang, and if it's good -- if it's really good -- I'll feel it every morning thereafter until I hit the print icon.

Comments

[Dean]

In my limited experience (nothing published, only short stories completed, a novel under way) this is how it happens for me, too.

An evocative entry, and it has me wondering why I'm reading instead of writing. Well, I'm writing at this particular moment, but you know what I mean.

[Jim Winter]

I'm slowly reaching that point where I don't just sit down and bang it out anymore.

I plan to invest in one of those microcassette recorders. I'm gonna need it.

[Kristy]

Always good to be the fan of a fan….

(Skyway 1986-The Replacements)

[Jimmy Beck]

That's great, T. So, like, who's your agent? Will you show her my book of political limericks and bukkake-themed sestinas?

[Tanya]

What? No more "great 37-page novels"? If a great writer such as yourself can no longer write great 37-page novels, I guess a lousy writer like me can't write a great 20-page novel. I'd better get cracking on mine, huh? :)

I wish you success with your new book ideas. Can't wait to read them!

Tanya

[Stephanie]

Go Tod! GO!

[David Thayer]

For desert travel I recommend having your attorney present to take notes. Load the trunk with ether to sustain the momentum. Make sure the radio is off. The odd Barry Manilow selection might result in serious injury.