There is supposedly a novel bursting to get out of all of us. I have the plot - it's a sort of Fatal Attraction meets Brokeback Mountain. It is beautiful, cruel and sad. The trouble with writing is one worries it to death then never gets started. Maybe I will give it to Sarah to write; although she writes books of a dubious nature that live in people's bedside drawers and need brown paper covers.
Writing a novel must be absolutely exhausting. You must have to live it every moment and hardly be able to sleep or eat for months; a bit like a painting. I usually manage to switch off when I am not actually in front of the canvas although portraits can be a bit tiring; there never seems to be a suitable stopping place. Writing, I feel, would be much the same.
Getting to the end of a novel might be tricky. If you are not careful you have written War and Peace and still not unravelled your whole plot - actually, just like War and Peace which, by the way, I have read - Natasha is one of my all time fictional heroines and she's such a cow. I suppose you just have to make it a trilogy or quartet. Perhaps I am becoming a little over ambitious here.
Mr Smith has a hard enough time living with an artist with painters' block, I think a novellist with writers' cramp would be asking too much.
No comments:
Post a Comment