Jumping back in, diving in… the language that immediately comes to mind when trying to describe writing a book once again is rather oceanic. I suppose it makes sense to lean on water metaphors. So many of our oldest surviving stories are diluvian myths: Gilgamesh, Noah, Manu, Deucalion… the list goes on. Our collective storytelling makes us see water — whether a great flood or a baptismal font — as a source of renewal, of new beginnings.
So am I reborn? lol, no.
But I’m not the same person who wrote those first sentences of my novel on the desk of a small, wooden desk of a hotel in the Oltrarno. A lot has changed between then and now — four years of change that included moving from one country to another, going back to school, getting married and lecturing a university class for the first time. (More on that experience in my next letter.)
Somewhere in there, I finished my first book too. But the prospect of the next book? It had seemed oh-so distant that I hardly thought on it. All I knew was that I was enjoying the writing experience, that I found it rewarding, that I wanted to keep doing it as long as it was sustainable. I assumed I’d have more confidence going into writing a second book. I thought I’d have more certainty that what I was about to do (again) would be worthwhile. I thought I’d be emboldened by a debut book deal and sure of my success.
Spoiler alert: that hasn’t happened.
That book deal, whatever size it may be, will, hopefully, still come. But it’s a long, arduous process — and I was naïve about how drawn-out that process was. Not to say I feel discouraged. On the contrary, after a summer of silence from potential lit agents, September brought a flurry of propitious replies. And I’m hoping for more good news soon.
What have I learned? That I can’t wait on some assurance of success to begin writing again. Foggy wisps of ideas are starting to creep into my idle thoughts. Does that mean I know the story yet? No, no, no. Just fragments — characters, emotions, places. And that’s enough to get started.
I don’t think I’m capable of ‘jumping’ or ‘diving’ back into writing a new book. For me, it’s something to be eased into, by way of paging through tomes of research and indulging in overlong, listless walks.
To return to oceanic language, I suppose this part is most like wading into an ocean. The sensation is recognizable, familiar — but that doesn’t stop the sudden chill of the water from shocking your skin. I just have to keep swimming, I guess.
What I’m reading: Hernan Diaz’s Trust was the best thing I read this summer. I also very much enjoyed Elif Batuman’s Either/Or.
What I’m watching: I’m most of the way through a Better Call Saul binge. It’s consistently very good and sometimes great — but I think the series could’ve been about two seasons shorter. At the cinema, I really enjoyed The Woman King. Decision to Leave was good and impeccably shot but the story felt half-baked to me.