I MAY BE GONE FOR SOME TIME….

I have disappeared inside my new novel. Into the scrawl and crossings-out of The Science of Departures (the title comes from a poem by the great Russian Osip Mandelstam). Into the umpteen promising beginnings that within weeks, sometimes only days, have shed their gloss. Into the relief of the occasional scene that has traction. Into the delight and the tease of new ideas. Into the temptation and frustration of a thousand possible narratives.
The word count waxes and wanes. Twenty thousand words one day becomes thirteen thousand the next. My folder of cut pieces is the only aspect of the new novel that reliably increases in size.
The surface of my desk has disappeared under research notes, reminder jottings, hand-written notebooks, annotated typescripts. And a few unpaid bills.
I have disappeared into other people’s books, books that provide fuel for my imagination. I am reading fat volumes of Soviet history and biographies of Soviet Tyrants. I am reading slender biographies of lovers. I am reading essays written by great thinkers (Russian and others), and Russian poetry, mostly Akhmatova and Mandelstam. I am reading fiction by Nabokov (for the ideas and the rich language), Virginia Woolf (for pace and for the essentials of prose), H.G. Wells (popular in Russia/Soviet Union during the twentieth century), David Lodge’s fictionalised account of Wells, A Man of Parts. I have started and discarded several volumes of contemporary fiction, including Siri Hustvedt’s The Blazing World, the self-conscious cleverness of which actually destroys the fiction.
And I walk the streets. So much walking, and invariably I find myself riffing on a new narrative strand and dashing home to try it out. This new novel that does not exist is occupying my life. It’s a feeling that’s lovely, terrifying and magical.
I’ll not be back here for some time.

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