But writing remains, for me, a series of successive approximations, each getting closer to that ideal of the right story. And in some way I don’t understand, I can feel that “getting closer,” as well as that “not there yet.”
Found this letter written partway through this draft in my files:
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Dear Book,
My next book won’t be like this, you know.
My next book there won’t be any letters to my characters (let alone to you), because the words will all leap from my fingers to the page, and everything will fall into place like magic, and there won’t be any time left over for writing letters, to myself or the story or anyone else.
You do realize this, don’t you?
Me
P.S. Also, no one will get hurt in my next book. Not like in that one scene we had to write. Or in the three scenes that came after it, either. My next book will be a gentle book. A nice book. I like nice books.
P.P.S. Why are you laughing?