4 July, 2014
Writing a novel, that is. No one asks you to do it, it’s often not much fun, yet it’s all-consuming and often all that matters. Writerly selfishness kicks in. Allegiances are tested. True character is revealed, and irritability abounds. Or maybe this occurs in the writer’s mind, only. Some authors, I assume, pull the charade off without letting on that while they smile and nod — as they chat at a cocktail party or share the family dinner table — they are a thousand miles away tending to those other people, those they also love, those they have created.