Garden State

My sister and I are trying to get the next novel off the ground — or at least I am. She’s got some other ideas she’s working on, but that’s all right, since the whole point of our collaboration is to double our output. Neither of us has moved much beyond the idea stage right now, though, and I’m at loose ends. I know where I want to go, but not how to get there; I have the backbone, the theme, the throughline set in my head, but I can’t seem to get the first sentence in the first chapter down.

Dot: Are you working on something new?
George: No.
Dot: That is not like you, George.
George: I’ve nothing to say.
Dot: You have many things —
George: Well, nothing that’s not been said…*

When I find I can’t say what I mean, I tend to revert to snatches of lyrics and quotes that resonate with me; they express the essence of my turmoil. I have one friend with whom I can have entire conversations in quotations. No doubt other people find this extraordinarily annoying, but it’s inexpressibly satisfying to have that sort of shorthand, to have that history. But knowledge of other people’s (sometimes momentary) brilliance can make it impossible to begin when you’re unconvinced you’re equipped to compete.

Dot: Move on… stop worrying where you’re going, move on/ If you can know where you’re going, you’ve gone/ just keep moving on…*

But I digress. And as I spin my wheels here, I know full well that I am doing nothing more than, as John Irving might say, “fucking around in the garden”. Someone, I think it was Jack London, said that you can’t wait for inspiration; you have to go after it with a club. But what kind of club? A five iron or a tire iron? Something a caveman might use or something elegant like a British walking stick?

The devil’s in the details.

* from “Move On”, Sunday in the Park with George, Music and Lyrics by Stephen Sondheim, Book by James Lapine