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Sandwich | Nov 26 2003

I am writing a novel. Or rather, this is what I hope I am doing. Novel writing is like this: As you do it, or as you try to do it, you don’t really know if it’s what you’re doing. This is different than, say, making a sandwich. When beginning to make a sandwich, you can state with some certainty that you are making a sandwich, that a sandwich will result from your efforts. Not so with a novel.

Over the last twelve years, I’ve begun eight different novels. Of these, I’ve finished two. Of these, I can still bear to read one, but only barely.

If I were a horse, I’d be given long odds to win this particular race, with winning defined as finishing the thing and liking it. But who knows? I have broken from the gates and am galloping along, astonished at the way my legs feel beneath me.

Also it’s a very big track—endless, really—with no clear route around it.

And I’m completely alone.