July 15th, 2004

Fiction

I didn't do any work on the book yesterday. I must try and do some today. I'm revising it, and that is relatively easy but not much fun. You don't get the adrenalin-rush of being carried away by story.

I write novels. But I don't read novels. Not any more. I'm forcing myself to read the Color Purple, but it doesn't do anything for me. I can't really explain this. Maybe I've reached saturation point; I read all the GREAT novels when I was a kid, and now there's nothing left worth bothering with. Or maybe it's just that, having learned the tricks of the trade, I'm no longer fooled by other people's illusions.

Someone asked Stevie Smith what poetry she read. She gave a feline smile and said, "why, only my own."

But I love the movies. That's how I get my fiction ration these days.