In the late 80s and early 90s, I turned out eight books at
what was, for me, a rapid pace. I was
involved at the university by that time, and remember a number of people
observing that I was "prolific" and "cranking them out"—phrases
used with contempt, as though I was spreading germs by sneezing in an
elevator. They always observed this
under a mask of objectivity, a mask that didn't hide the curled-up lip very
well—the expression of disdain that we academics always use for something we
don't understand.
They're wrong and they're right, you know. At least given my current writing rhythm and
rate of production. I see people caught
up with a kind of marketing fever, preoccupied by the fear that they will pass
from the knowledge of readers if they don't publish a couple of books a
year. And they, too, have a point: a friend of mine wanted to do an article on
my work for Louisville Magazine back in the late 90s, only to have the proposal
rejected because "he hasn't published in five years" (I'd published
two books in the five years in question, so whoever said this was mistaken, but
the observation tells you something—that publishing is, understandably,
fascinated with what is most recent).
But I don't work that way anymore. Writing a book is, for me, a long gestation,
as ideas, plots and subplots, and additional characters introduce themselves
over the course of several years, and in ways that connect and deepen what I'm
working on, ways I could not hope to attain if I kept up the pace I set twenty
years ago.
I think of two models of creation. God made the world in seven days, according
to Genesis 1 and 2. I don't believe for
a moment that this is a literal account of how the world got done (whether or
not it's helpful as a metaphorical account is the subject for someone else's
blog); far more reasonable to assume that creation was the slow process all the
scientific evidence indicates. That's
how good things get done in nature, and as I grow older, I have come to
appreciate that process, to know in my bones that faster is not better.
And no, you young 'uns out there: it's not that I'm old and
tired. My age and weariness may show
itself in other things, but a slow writing is to me harder work. Instead of thinking about a book for six
months, I think about it for two or three years, turning its possibilities in
my hand, seeing it from various angles, like you'd do when you were a kid
tilting a prism to the light. I love working
on books, and I love doing the work at my pace, in my time.
I do want to publish, mind you, and I do dread the
possibility of being passed by in an industry that, as Shakespeare said of Time,
"hath a wallet at its back/Wherein it keeps alms for oblivion". But don't be too quick to delight in the fact
that I'd like to see my books in print: the best part of this job—hands down,
nothing else about it even remotely
close—is the writing itself.
So I'll take my time and see you down the road. Wait for me.
