From the NY Times Review of Books:
"A book itself threatens to kill its author repeatedly during its composition,” Michael Chabon writes in the margins of his unfinished novel “Fountain City” — a novel, he adds, that he could feel “erasing me, breaking me down, burying me alive, drowning me, kicking me down the stairs.”
Yes, oh yes . . . too many distractions, too many overnight guests, too many 104-degree days to write convincingly. My WIP buried me alive and stomped on my shallow grave over the past few days.
On a totally different subject, here's what I'm missing by spending the summer in New England instead of the Bahamas. My friend and neighbor Marjolein (Abaco Artist) posted this on her blog. It's the sea out in front of our houses at Great Cistern. Oh, to be in a kayak . . .
"A book itself threatens to kill its author repeatedly during its composition,” Michael Chabon writes in the margins of his unfinished novel “Fountain City” — a novel, he adds, that he could feel “erasing me, breaking me down, burying me alive, drowning me, kicking me down the stairs.”
Yes, oh yes . . . too many distractions, too many overnight guests, too many 104-degree days to write convincingly. My WIP buried me alive and stomped on my shallow grave over the past few days.
On a totally different subject, here's what I'm missing by spending the summer in New England instead of the Bahamas. My friend and neighbor Marjolein (Abaco Artist) posted this on her blog. It's the sea out in front of our houses at Great Cistern. Oh, to be in a kayak . . .
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