A Form of Madness

The city is enveloped in fog as often happens at this time of year. I can only see the bottom floors of the Bloomingdale Building on Michigan Avenue a couple of blocks away.

I woke well before sunrise this morning, drank my coffee, and started writing my next novel. I wanted to begin writing it yesterday morning, but I was very tired after a poor night’s sleep.

So, this morning I blew the dust from the cover of the manual typewriter, rolled a fresh sheet of paper into it, stared at it for a good long spell, drank coffee, and thought about what to write. My shoeboxes full of postcard notes sat at my feet. The postcards scribbled with notes were supposed to help me start when I got around to it. So much for grand ideas.

I reminded myself to forget about all the things the how-to-write-a-novel books tell you to do. I reminded myself to not set any limits on time or length. A novel probably should have a beginning, middle, and end. I will know I am done with the first draft when I perceive it has those three elements.

I was sitting next to a couple from New York City in Pippin’s, my local bar, earlier this year and reading the manuscript of the first draft of the last novel I wrote. The woman, slightly drunk, sitting next to me asked me what I was reading. I made the mistake of telling her. She wanted to know what my novel was about. I told her I did not know since it was not finished. She did not accept my answer. She wanted to situate it with the other novels she had read. I tried to explain to her that I had just finished making up a bunch of stuff and writing it down. What would survive after that I did not know. I could tell she was insulted and did not believe me. She finally gave up and told me about a song she had written in the middle of the night. I asked her what it was about. She never got around to telling me. She was just pleased that she had written a song once. Good for her.

I would never have taken the manuscript to the local bar except I needed to be slightly tipsy and away from sharp objects while reading it.

Early this morning, I reminded myself that I should never tell what I am writing about. It breaks the spell. Writing a novel is a form of madness. Breaking the spell means you have to start anew.

I started typing.

All I can tell you is that I will wake up early every morning and write a little of my next novel. After that, I do not know. I don’t know if I even care anymore.

Corporal Potter lets the match burn down to his fingers.

Corporal Potter: It bloody well hurts. What’s the trick?

Lawrence of Arabia: The trick is not minding that it hurts.

Lawrence of Arabia