Sunday, September 10, 2017

...act of faith.


Like scraps of landscape glimpsed from atop a distant mountain, bits of towns, farms, forest, twisting threads of roads, emerging from clouds and lost again in them. 

That is how a novel comes. A scene here, a conversation there, a face, the feel of weather and a place. It doesn't come all at once or even in order. 

But you have to be there, paying attention, to write down all the bits as they show themselves. Eventually, you can discern a pattern, and out of the pattern, assemble your story. 

I'm usually at least half-way through a book before I get any clear notion of where it is going or what it is about. Writing fiction begins, as do all holy undertakings, with an unreasonable act of blind uncalculated faith.


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