Wreckage.

Writing a novel feels like this:

You’re the sole survivor of a ship that’s sunk on the open sea. It’s gone miles beneath the surface, irretrievable, and you’re the only one who remembers it. You try to build a raft out of scraps that float to the surface, but not nearly enough scraps come up, and they’re too spread out, and there’s no way to fit them back together. But you keep trying. And to fill the gaps, you grab whatever floats by, blubber, kelp, plastic duckie toys, and stuff them together, and finally you make something you can get on top of. It’s not the ship, but it has some parts of the ship, and it floats.

And when you press your palms over your eyes, in that heart’s darkness, you can see the ship beneath you.

And know you must keep working.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 173 other followers