I have started a new novel and I cannot tell you how good it feels to write those words. For months now I have been kicking my heels, thinking, brooding, plotting, planning, cudgelling my brains and getting depressed, beginning to lose all confidence in my ability to conjure up stories, telling myself not to be ridiculous, telling myself that it was only a matter of time, trying to be patient, trying not to despair.
Then last night I suddenly found myself sitting down in front of the computer and starting. And today I have sketched out the first chapter. When it was finished I loved it so much I couldn’t sit down. I had to get up and pace excitedly around the room with a maniacal grin on my face.
I read it to my wife, of course, like the beginnings of all my novels, waiting in trepidation to see whether or not she would give it the thumbs up. But to tell the honest truth there wasn’t too much genuine fear because deep down I knew that it was good. That it was going to fly. That I had found myself a new project.
How I love this moment. It’s like being one of those characters I read about when I was a child, setting out on an adventure, not knowing where it will lead, simply being swept up by the tide of events and allowing myself to surrender to it.
No doubt there will come days when I am profoundly depressed about the whole thing but the future can take care of itself. Tonight I am intoxicated with the thrill of creation.