There’s nothing quite like the queasy exhilaration of starting a new novel. It’s the most fun you’ll ever have, but it’s scary as hell because you know the story is too big for you; you’re unequal to the task.
You start anyway – exploring the characters, discovering who they are, what has happened to them and what makes them real. But you aren’t smart enough, aren’t good enough, to pull it off. You’ll never do justice to the subtleties of these people you already love even before you completely know them. You feel a desire to transport into their world – and not come back. To live their stories without the pain and hard work of tacking them to the page.
At this point the person you live with finds you spacey, irritable, euphoric. Unless that person has been through this with you before, he thinks you’re nuts. He’s right. You can’t wait to get to the computer, but then you want to bolt from the chair because there’s this feeling in your stomach like writhing worms. Like going over the top on the biggest roller coaster in the universe and you can’t see the bottom of the track. This is why you do it. You love it, hate it, fear it, need it.
God, I love being a writer.