I am within nanosyllables of completing my fifth novel, and looking through the manuscript today, fluffing and backfilling, I had occasion to return to some notes I made early on.
I stared at that file, thinking, Bgmdvpwha?
The book I envisioned and outlined so thoughtfully bears barely a fleeting resemblance to the book I wrote. But the book I wrote is the book that had to be written. It was the book I had in me. God knows, I would love to be more literary, more commercial, more Oprah-appropriate, more this, more that. But trying to write what I don’t have in me would be both futile and fatal.