Monday, December 17, 2012

Here's the question I want to ask all the giants.  Alice Munro, Ali Smith, Anne Enright, William Trevor.    Do you ever love something that you've written as much as books written by others?  I fear I will never, ever love anything as much as I love reading a book that was NOT written by me.  As a result, there is always this dark, let-down feeling that torments me at the end of a project.  Just as it's all coming together--and, yes, there are parts that I like, even moments that I sort of adore--I basically want to toss it all in the fire.  I'd rather read a book in which I don't know the ending.  A book whose sentences don't remind me of all the sweat and tears and cuticles that were destroyed in pursuit of them.  Alas, here I am.