Saturday, December 28, 2013

On writing and Edward St. Aubyn

I’m not trying to uncover the facts of my life, but to discover the dramatic truth of the situations I was in. Something being hidden is a necessity before I can start writing. If I have something to say, it’s much easier for me to just meet up with a friend and say it. If there’s something that I really don’t want to say, as in Never Mind, or something that I don’t know how to say, as in Bad News, or something that I don’t even know what it is, that’s what makes me submit to the horrible process of writing a novel. It is very unpleasant. After I’ve written a novel, I feel a little bit clearer and freer than I did before, but while I’m writing it, it’s horrible, it’s intensely upsetting. But for some reason I feel obliged to go on doing it. It’s the only thing I can do. 

—  EDWARD ST. AUBYN via SNP


Yes. 

And also, when asked if I like writing I used to enthusiastically reply yes. Now I hesitate. Sometimes I like it- when it's like hypnosis and you're discovering the story as it flows from your fingertips in a heavy fevered sonambulance. When you know what you want to say and you have the words to say it- rarer than you might expect- then, it is smugly satisfying. Words hitting the page like arrows hitting a target, as if by reflex.

Sometimes it is like wrestling a foe you can't quite grasp, always twisting out of your grasp, barging into you where you least expected, dragging you somewhere you're unwilling to go. You can discern the dim shape of it but how to pin it down? Exhausting. It throws you back on yourself, on your abilities, on your ideas. 

At other times, I sit gaping at the silent screen, handwritten notes lapping around the keyboard. Stunted sentences that I quickly delete. I gesture emptily with my hands, prompting nothing from my shy and teeming mind.


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