I just finished A Gentleman in Moscow for the third time. I like the ending so much that I immediately reread the last forty pages. I've never read the great Russian writers, so next up is Anna Karenina. It's a big book. I have trouble with big books. Everyone raves about The Count of Monte Cristo but I couldn't get through it. Someday I will go back and start from page one with a different translation, but for now the Count is on my list of failed attempts to read classic books.
It mirrors my own failure to finish writing a novel. I have started and left unfinished several works of fiction. I have tried to jar the writing sequence by writing in longhand instead of on the laptop, in the manner of John le Carre and Ian Fleming (and every writer who ever lived before computers were invented). I read that Fleming's workday regimen consisted of writing for two hours without "looking back" (in other words, just write. Let the words flow). Then he would swim (he lived on a beach in Jamaica but also had a pool). Then he would lunch and nap. Then he would write some more. I had never read Fleming until my London trip last month and found him to be an amazing and underrated writer, thus my interest.
I have to admit that this failure to finish a novel eats at me. For I know the time has come to get it done. The creative narrative voice I used in The Long Run was loads of fun. I can't put the genie back in the bottle. It's the kind of voice that lends itself to fiction.
(For those of you wondering about the success of The Long Run, it's doing pretty good. Not the multimillion bestseller I was hoping for, but pretty good. It's getting around through word of mouth. I am learning that in this world of Instagram influencers it is not enough to write a great book. One must film endless zany videos and share personal training tips and pretend to be the ultimate authority on running and film shameless stunts to get attention. I can you hear you: "Ok, old guy. Just shut up and do those things. This is the future. Writers can't just write anymore." To which I respond that I am prideful and arrogant in many ways, a coach whose proven knowledge of how to turn non-runners into champions speaks for itself and a writer who still believes that a well-written sentence/paragraph/book should be enough, not sullied by TikTok. Which, I know, is antiquated and I need to get over myself. Anyway, I love The Long Run. I am biased but I agree with legends like George Hirsch who says it's the best book ever written about distance running and we should all go buy a copy. But that's just me.)
Back to novels. I need to write one.
You'd think that after writing so many books I would have no fears about putting words on the page. Lord knows that Jim Patterson doesn't seem to have a problem. And I know that grief activates the fear-focused lizard brain, though I've had this fear about fiction for a decade, so that theory doesn't hold water. And if Ian Fleming can find time in the day for a second writing session, then why can't I? This would allow me to work on non-fiction (aka, "paying the bills") while having adult recess in the afternoon? (to which I respond that writing — any kind of writing — is never recess).
I think it comes down to this: I now live in a world where the future has no shape. I have to remind myself to vacuum and wash the sheets. I am learning how to navigate the detergent aisle at Target. I am giving away clothing and shoes that no one is wearing anymore (mostly mine, much to my surprise). My most recent book, which I consider to be exponentially better than my New York Times bestsellers, is not as loved as Killing Lincoln. All of which is to say that I don't know up from down these days. Everything is unstable. Writing a novel feels like walking through a minefield. But really: when is life ever stable? I've been taking risks and gambling my whole career. Just because my safety net isn't here any more doesn't mean I need to stop pushing limits.
It's just, you know, scarier.