It’s an odd experience completing the final draft of a novel, as I did last week. I winged it off to my publisher and two writers whose opinion I trust and value, went off to my ballet class, then took a friend out for an excellent fish dinner in our local French restaurant. I didn’t manage much sleep that night, overcome by existential anxiety and churning restlessness, and was woken at five-thirty by my son, who was taking the early flight to Berlin and had overslept. Too late either for public transport or an airport car-park, he needed me to go with him and drive his car home. As the electricity had failed, we dressed by torchlight, and finally launched ourselves into the dark of early morning. After a white-knuckle drive we reached the airport with fifteen minutes to spare. I abandoned him at the quick-drop-off point, only to find myself apparently locked into his car, and a queue of cars behind me. After much panic-stricken pressing of buttons, the passenger window eventually slid open, so I clambered out, threw the pound coin into the machine to open the barrier, myself back through the window into the car, and drove off.
Why the hell do I feel compelled to write novels anyway? I’ve always loved reading, but that hardly answers the question, and I’ve wanted to write for almost as long as I knew books existed. There are times, but rarely, when I read a novel that contributes to making life worth living. I finish reading and go back to the beginning again, dwelling on the characters, the setting, the poetry of the writing itself still echoing in my mind. Those times the imagination is lit up and the world seems richer, more expansive and at the same time more intimate. Novels such as John Williams' Stoner, Marilynne Robinson’s Home, and most recently Philip Larkin’s extraordinary novel, A Girl in Winter are food for the heart and soul, as well as the mind.
To aspire to write something of such quality seems entirely worthwhile. I have no delusions, and I know I’m nowhere near yet, but we all improve with the hours we put in. I’m in for the long haul, and perhaps, in part, this is what drives me to keep on working.
Why the hell do I feel compelled to write novels anyway? I’ve always loved reading, but that hardly answers the question, and I’ve wanted to write for almost as long as I knew books existed. There are times, but rarely, when I read a novel that contributes to making life worth living. I finish reading and go back to the beginning again, dwelling on the characters, the setting, the poetry of the writing itself still echoing in my mind. Those times the imagination is lit up and the world seems richer, more expansive and at the same time more intimate. Novels such as John Williams' Stoner, Marilynne Robinson’s Home, and most recently Philip Larkin’s extraordinary novel, A Girl in Winter are food for the heart and soul, as well as the mind.
To aspire to write something of such quality seems entirely worthwhile. I have no delusions, and I know I’m nowhere near yet, but we all improve with the hours we put in. I’m in for the long haul, and perhaps, in part, this is what drives me to keep on working.
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