Saturday, June 22, 2002
A long time ago, I was complaining to Neil Gaiman about some personal problem or another which, at the time, seemed like the end of the world. Now I can't even recall what the hell it was all about. Anyway, he told me not to dwell on it too long because in the end, when we're dead, all anyone will actually remember about us is the work, the words. All the rest of the shit doesn't matter. Just the words. And, at the moment, I am keenly aware of the truth of his advice, and the weight it places on anyone who chooses to spend her life as a writer. There is no division between the work and who I am. I am the work, the characters in the story, the poetry or lack thereof, the truth and the lies. My worth to society and to myself, ultimately, rests in these tales, in my talent (which is only what I was born with), my skill (which can only be increased by so much), and my perseverance.
At any rate, Chapter Nine is finished. Though it was slow going at first, the marathon came off and I managed an impressive (to me, anyway) 1,849 wds., between about 12 and 6:30 p.m. And the end of this chapter is a sort of turning point in the novel, so I feel as though I, like the characters trapped in the ms., have passed across some threshold into darker territories. The story is moving quickly towards climax and conclusion. And I'm frightened that's it's all happened so fast.
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