I’m down on myself for not writing a book. I want to, mean to, I have time, I’m not incapable, so what’s the holdup. I’ve even grumped in missives how I’m only publishing missives.
Who needs another book, you might ask. Our world is overstocked. Everybody and their daughter-in-law is writing one. Relax already.
Good advice, thanks, but not palliative. In any field of endeavor, there’s a big thing contestants hope to achieve, a particular Everest to scale. In music in the nineteenth century, the big thing was opera or a symphonic work, played in a big hall, requiring a small army to produce. Two composers of genius, Chopin and Schumann, wanted to make such behemoths though their talent was for miniatures. They tried – they did OK (they were geniuses, after all) – but they couldn’t hide the strain; their big pieces feel sweat-flecked. Similarly, short-story writers have lashed themselves to produce novels and still-life specialists pined to paint entire interiors.
My talent, if any, is for miniatures. Six hundred words don’t daunt me, a jolly frolic. But a book, oy, that takes work, which I’m allergic to. I have no idea how novelists write novels or Gibbon or contemporary historians their titanic tomes.
Partly I blame my ADD, which I prefer to think of as a superabundance of curiosity not a deficit of attention. I bore very fast – and start fidgeting. I have trouble finishing novels I’m really liking. I set them down and faster than you can say Solzhenitsyn they’re buried beneath a stack. Oops, sorry, I apologize to their authors, maybe later.
Partly I don’t believe in satisfactory conclusions. If you make anything big, you must descry your destination from the start. Wagner, commencing the first of his four Ring operas, sought out themes that would satisfy him twenty-six years later. That’s a wow and a half. I’ve no idea what I’ll think tomorrow, uncertainty my only certainty. The more confident my conviction, the likelier I am to contradict it. Five years ago, I laughed at God, then He paid me a call, forcing me to rethink everything. Nine years ago, I’d have sworn that America’s democracy was self-correcting. I know better now.
Partly I’m too insecure to beg you to read my book. These missives devour many hours if read regularly, but only in bite-sized servings. Skip a missive or a dozen, no big deal my feelings aren’t hurt. But if I labor for years on a book, I’ll pine for your opinion, which will take you time to form. I’ve friends who’ve never found time to read my books, though they’ve time for plenty else. I’m sure every writer has felt this hurt, though loath to admit it.
Partly I have too much fun writing to write in the same style page after page. Book-length prose aspires to disappear like a plate glass window so you can focus on what’s shown and ignore the separation. Among Ulysses’ many fatal flaws is Joyce’s shifting styles, which, while calling attention to his brilliance, distract us from his characters. I like juggling styles too, but for six hundred words I can be consistent (I hope).
Most terribly, books’ shelf life threatens. Missives scatter like leaves, but books, like trees, endure for generations, judging their maker.
Such are my excuses for publishing only these six-hundred-word cheese doodles instead of a meaty book. All valid. Then I revile myself, taunt my timidity, dare and goad myself, as I’m doing now. Next we meet, ask me how my book’s coming. I’ll tell you I’m working on it. I am.