I find myself wanting to take three weeks’ vacation all at once and go somewhere far, far away–I’m trying to think of who my farthest-flung relatives are these days–and write a novel. I could emulate F. Scott Fitzgerald and rework, yet again, the same tired novel I first started writing my freshman year of college. Or I could try something new.
I know I would rework that same old one again. But I know it would be no This Side of Paradise. The stolen character names from “Babylon Revisited” and the title lifted from the part of the story I remember best probably won’t be enough to save it.
I see myself now, sitting in an upper room with the window open, looking outside at the trees, listening to The Cure too much, insanity creeping over me, coloring my words, which get better and better the more I lose my grip on reality, until finally the work is finished and I (maybe) snap back.
In the end, it would purely to say I did it. (At first I was going to say it would be therapeutic, but that’s certainly debatable.) Publishing fiction is tough. Fitzgerald wallpapered a wall of his apartment with rejection letters. In this day and age of readily available word processors, there’s a much larger pool of talent competing. Making time to write is easy for me. Making time to publish is something else altogether.
But it would be fun.
I’ll place my bets on one thing: If it were published, it would sell better in Trinidad than in the States.