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Writing is murder

Ann Patchett's essay on writing in today's New York Times is a bit too glib — she pretty much says she wrote it as a distraction, and that's the way it reads — but it relates an interesting tale nonetheless:

In these early pre-text days my story has more promise, more beauty, than I have ever seen in any novel ever written, because, sadly, this novel is not written. Then the time comes when I have to begin to translate ideas into words, a process akin to reaching into the air, grabbing my little friend (crushing its wings slightly in my thick hand), holding it down on a cork board and running it though with a pin. It is there that the lovely thing in my head dies.

Ah, so.

August 26, 2002 11:42 PM

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