When a Novel Isn’t in the Cards
For years, my writing discipline was simple: I aimed for an hour a day. An obsessive reviser, I might spend that hour rearranging a single sentence. I also flitted shamelessly between projects. When I woke up buoyant and capable, I attacked my novel. When an odd idea or a lyrical phrase inspired me, I massaged it into a short story. I tinkered with one of my half-finished essays when keyed up about art or feminism, and sketched sad bears for my graphic novel when I was foggy-brained and sluggish.
The downside to this approach: It took me ten years to finish my first book. My hard drive was a charnel ground of
