This is the fifth place to find me on the internet. Please don't tell me I need a sixth.
Once I wrote a novel called Antiheroine. This was after I broke up with my boyfriend and went to LA and broke my ankle and was trapped in a house there for two months in a cast living on Percosets and trail mix. After I recovered I wrote this novel in about three months and the plot of it was this: A woman breaks up with her boyfriend, goes to LA, breaks her ankle and gets trapped in a house there for two months. Etc. (With a few changes.) (But basically the same deal.)
I showed the book to my agent and he said he liked it (but did not say he loved it) and that he could maybe sell it but I would need to fix the middle of it, which “sagged.” I swapped my apartment in Brooklyn for an apartment in Rome owned by a documentary filmmaker and I took the manuscript with me and I marked it all up with edits and then I decided I never wanted to look at it again, and I haven’t. I just needed to write it and get it out of my system.
A few years later, after I finished The Midds, I wrote another book which, while not loosely based on my life, had a character I identified with strongly, and I wrote this book in about five months and then I showed it to my agent and he said, “Wellll,” and then I showed it to Lauren and she said, “Wellll,” and then I thought about what I would need to do to fix it and if it were really the kind of book that would make sense to publish after The Midds and I talked about it with Lauren and a few other people and then I put it away and never looked at it again. This book was called Upstate, which I still think is a great title and someday I’m going to use it for something else. Just you wait. (I know you are not waiting.)
Now I just started a new project which feels, for similar reasons, like these other two books, which is to say autobiographical (although less so than Antiheroine and more so than Upstate, which means nothing to you since you have not read them, I know) and ready to be written fast fast fast. I was talking to Vannesa in the park today about it and I said, “There are two possibilities. One is that it’s just another book I need to throw away. Or, it’s the book I’ve been working on for years that is finally ready to be fully realized.” It could be either, this is what we discussed for few minutes. And that it would be OK for me to throw it away when it came time. Because not everything that gets written needs to be read.
But I go forward in good faith that it could be good enough or necessary or important enough to be read. I also go forward so I don’t have to sit still any longer.
What I’m doing lately is writing on my iphone and emailing little bits of a new story to myself. Which is weird because I’ve never done that before. I’ve re-written the first sentence five times. I’ve got all these short emails with no subject line, just the same first sentence in the body, with the words slightly different each time.
Also I have a small green moleskine and I was making notes in it while I was driving. I can’t bring myself to look at it because I’m pretty sure it’s a mess and I’ll never be able to decipher it, and then I’ll get sad because of all those lost ideas. But anyway I am writing some fiction and that’s good.
Earlier today a friend of mine was upset because she’d been sitting at the library for hours and had gotten nothing done all day. She was sad about someone she loved who had passed away, that was the real story. It was his birthday and she missed him. It was getting in the way of her writing, and all she wanted to do was write. She’s the real deal, she gets it, she knows that the work is what carries you from one place to another. It’s your thruline.
I told her I was done talking to her, that she had to write 250 words, and then she would have done something with her day. Then she would feel better. “Bye,” I said. “xoxo.” Later in the afternoon she emailed me and said she had written 167 words so far.
Now I have to write 250 words tomorrow. I tell her to do it, I remind myself to do it, I’m telling you to do it, too. 250 words. That’s all you have to write to have done something with your day.