There’s a popular idea, fueled by countless Hollywood movies, of how writing a novel works. It goes something like this. Author is struck by inspiration. Author sits down and types in a frenzied montage, words flowing directly from the ether onto the page. Within a few hours/days/weeks, a book appears.Article continues after advertisement
I used to think this was (charitably) an exaggeration, or (uncharitably) bullshit. My experience of the writing process always involved much more conscious effort, and much more uncertainty. I spent my time stumbling through first drafts, doubling back, second-guessing everything I wrote. I had accepted that even if the pure-inspiration model was real, it wasn’t something I would ever experience.
But then an image came to me: a young woman in the back seat of a car, returning to the burnt-out ruin of the house where she once lived as a member of a cult. Within a few days, the rest of the story coalesced around her: the charismatic leader she was going back to find; the power he had offered her, to control and manipulate what others perceive as reality; and the community she had lost.
For those thirty-three days, I wasn’t much fun to be around. I lost myself to the world of the cult.
