Monday, December 01, 2003
tandoori, you sweet disease.
we went out for an expense-account evening last night with yet another member of my writers' group who happened to cruise through town. i'd met him before, on his turf in san francisco, and he's really lovely, and his family, too. sue was there, with presents for me from her mother i've never met, and we all had indian food. sue, it turns out, is so deathly allergic to foods involving cultured dairy that her throat will swell and close up if she even smells them. this gave me a perfect opportunity to ask the waiter a life-or-death question about our dinners: a pink spotlight came down from the ceiling, and the restaurant hushed as i said, "is there any yogurt? because if so, one of our number will die."
we talked, and sue admitted she's finished her novel, and leary talked about his novel, and i talked about how i can't write a novel. i'm a little upset at how poor a storyteller i am for someone who loves to tell stories. and i don't mean ancedotes: i mean long ropy narratives, with muscles and opposable thumbs. i don't mean some short play where everything that happens in the fiction (except one thing) actually happened to you in your actual life. i mean a novel. i mean a good, theatrical play.
it's upsetting, and i thought that maybe a class would help, but man--going to some "how to write a novel" class has got to be the worst ever. did don delillo have to go to these classes?
probably not.
in closing, i will say this about new york: even though i know i pay seventy dollars a month for the privilege, and moreover the turnstiles swing for *anyone* with the appropriate card, i feel a small gush of pride everytime i feed my metrocard into the subway gate and it beeps and i turn and i've gotten inside once again. it's nice to be allowed in.
we talked, and sue admitted she's finished her novel, and leary talked about his novel, and i talked about how i can't write a novel. i'm a little upset at how poor a storyteller i am for someone who loves to tell stories. and i don't mean ancedotes: i mean long ropy narratives, with muscles and opposable thumbs. i don't mean some short play where everything that happens in the fiction (except one thing) actually happened to you in your actual life. i mean a novel. i mean a good, theatrical play.
it's upsetting, and i thought that maybe a class would help, but man--going to some "how to write a novel" class has got to be the worst ever. did don delillo have to go to these classes?
probably not.
in closing, i will say this about new york: even though i know i pay seventy dollars a month for the privilege, and moreover the turnstiles swing for *anyone* with the appropriate card, i feel a small gush of pride everytime i feed my metrocard into the subway gate and it beeps and i turn and i've gotten inside once again. it's nice to be allowed in.
