A friend visited last night, a writer friend. He was telling me about the work practice of a well-known American man of letters, a novelist and poet, with whom my friend is particularly close. “He has everything thought out before he even starts,” he told me. I was green with envy. The little bit of fiction I have written began with an opening sentence and what followed was the anthesis of the well-conceived plot line. The opening sentence is the kick-off to the game and I never made it to half-time.
Here are a few samples, opening lines to a few of my failed stories:
“Elder Stone and Elder Harris visited Dave Burns and asked if he had a relationship with God.”
“He packed as light as he ever had packed.”
“He lay looking skyward.”
“He wondered about what Julie said, that he lived large, and how it fed his appetite to live larger still.”
“Anymore it took work to get into a good mood.”
“That Anne came to live in Chile after reading Chatwin is not unusual.”
“I have been photographing seriously for several years and find it to be a convenient way to avoid writing.”
“A woman sat alone.”
Probably, upon reflection, it’s just as well they died the quiet death they did. It’s not only fiction that fails to construct itself properly. My non-fiction, the workshop where I spend most of my time, is also a meandering and stitching together of notions and themes. I was asked recently about this, about what I write about specifically. I’ve spent a little time thinking about this question and put together a proper and meandering response. You can read the essay, What Am I Doing Here? at The Nervous Breakdown.
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...the house I live in... 
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