Sunday, 16 October 2011
The End of Another Novel
Silver cobweb in the window. Dampness everywhere: a cold, dripping morning. Dew whitening the grass. Not yet really cold, but a warning shot. Soon winter will be here. It comes around like the end of a novel. The left hand filled with the bulk of finished pages, the right with the slender section that’s left. Always a temptation to race through at this stage. Get on to the next story in the stack. But this is a mistake: you have to take the time to savour, understand every word.