I’m a sucker for craft. It may be some form of heavily disguised procrastination activity but I love reading about how some of my favourite novels were put together: what changes occurred to the manuscript and what real life incidents inspired them.
Because writing isn’t disconnected from the real world. Real life bleeds into writing like it bleeds into dreams. And as a result I have this romanticised idea that those books written over summers (or in the case of the fellow above, years) are periods of adventure and self-discovery.
However, finding myself in the depths of my own novel and tied up in a minor plot knot, the reality of it all couldn’t feel any further away. This has been the most boring of summers, where the only adventure and self-discovery has been on the page, save for my weekly trip out into the country to hunt for tupperware.
In fact the only thing that can be called even remotely a revelation is that I want to write a zombie novel sometime in the future, although I don’t have any original ideas or spin just yet.
No, I suspect that like me, those periods when novels were written would probably be considered the most boring of times by their authors