Thursday, February 3, 2011

I was lying in bed last night reading Richard Ford's The Sportswriter, and suddenly I realized why I can't write novels: because as I read, I can't imagine writing what I'm reading.

Poems, even great ones, even glorious ones, even ones I don't understand--I can still imagine writing them. I read a few lines from Milton's Paradise Lost or Pound's Cantos or Plath's Ariel, and somehow I'm standing alongside that writer, as if I am a word, or a peculiar sound, or an image.

I don't even like Pound's Cantos, but I can still feel that way when I read them.

But novels? Somehow I'm always outside looking in. I can see how the writer is doing the job, but I'm never in there doing the job with him.

Meanwhile, I love the novel form, and I read fiction constantly, whereas I read poetry only sporadically.

I think this is all very strange, and requires more thought.

Dessert tonight: Ricotta cheesecake with strawberry sauce. Plans for dinner are far more hazy, but I suppose I'll eventually have decide on something.

4 comments:

Ruth said...

At least you have the important part of dinner figured out.

Maureen said...

Someone asked me if I ever intended to write a novel. I laughed. Not something I can imagine doing either. The interest just isn't there. I do read fiction (not not so much as biography/memoirs and poetry); one of the best novels I've read recently is Night Train from Lisbon. I haven't finished Room yet; not sure I will.

Jenne' R. Andrews said...

Of course... but I bet you could if you wanted to. xxxj

Dawn Potter said...

When I was a kid, I was so sure I'd be writing novels. As it turns out, I've never even tried. My short stories were so bad that I gave up on the whole enterprise.