Notes From a Slow Winter of Writing
Some seasons produce pages and some produce patience. This past winter produced eleven thousand words, of which perhaps nine hundred survive, and an unreasonable number of walks along the same stretch of shingle.
I used to treat months like that as failure. I have come to think of them differently. A book is not only written at the desk; a great deal of it is assembled while you are apparently doing nothing, on a cold beach, arguing with yourself about a character who will not behave.
“Keep the appointment. Most days nothing comes. Then one Tuesday in February the whole middle section arrives, as though it had been waiting for you to prove you were serious.”
The practical trick, if there is one, is to keep the appointment. Sit down at the same hour whether or not anything comes. Most days nothing does. Then one Tuesday in February the whole middle section arrives at once, fully formed, as though it had been waiting for you to prove you were serious.
So: a slow winter, and no apology for it. The book is moving again, which is all any of us can ask of a book.
Arnold Newman is the award-winning author of seven novels exploring love, memory, and the quiet machinery of family life. His work has been translated into a dozen languages and adapted twice for the stage. Before turning to fiction, he spent years as a journalist, an experience that taught him to listen closely and mistrust easy answers. He lives by the coast with his wife and far too many books.
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