I'm sitting in my office on a Sunday afternoon. Rode the Peloton, went to church, Ricardo's in San Juan for crunchy tacos and refried beans, a little time re-reading The Winds of War, and now here I sit. Sadie, the two-year old black lab who behaves like the teenager she is, keeps trying to steal from the stash of Jujyfruits beneath my desk. She farts a lot.
Django, the nine-year-old hound, sleeps on the green carpet next to the guitar I keep telling myself I will someday learn to play.
It's nice to have a day like this. I would even say vital. I'm in that no-man's land of a book project, unable to remember the beginning and trying to figure out how the story will end. It's a funny thing about writing history in these days of historical reinvention — media outlets and crackpot theorists either pretending events didn't happen, politicizing every comma, or acting as if current events have no connection to the past. Writing non-fiction is now much more than assembling the facts and writing a good story. Every word is potentially fraught with controversy. Taking a moment to step back and appraise next week's work from a remove feels as much strategic as creative. Sunday off recharges me for Monday morning.
But the mind never really rests. I'm reading Winds of War because I think it would be a fun challenge to someday write historical fiction. Something sweeping and epic, with romance and daring characters. Reading Wouk is an attempt to learn from the best. I have a nugget of an idea in my mind about a narrative arc, but in reading this book (there's always something to learn from great authors — it’s like sitting down with a very entertaining textbook) I am amazed at how such a dense piece of description can be such an addiction. Wouk's not in a hurry to get anywhere and I am more than happy to go along for the ride. The little idea rattling around my brain needs to grow up and grow out if this historical fiction idea becomes reality. Scorcese reminds me that it’s my job to “get the audience to care about my obsessions,” which is a tall order, but an exciting thought to chase.
And, I should admit, I am afraid.
Writing an epic is strong labor. I know what it's like to inhabit the mindset of historical figures, but it's a whole other thing to invent them from scratch and build a fable around them. We're talking about hours of daydreaming, falling in love with people who don't exist, and inventing a story that comes to life with detail. I am not a writer who believes in outlines but it feels very much like this sort of work requires a clear head, hours of alone time, and writing the dreaded outline on a large piece of white butcher paper and hanging it on my office wall.
Which is what Sundays are for.