Wolff talked a lot about his slow, arduous writing process. “Some writers seem, almost, to be a channel for an inspiring work that flows down from the sky…,” he motioned to the ceiling, “…and through them. Updike is that type.” He likened his own process to working with clay, sometimes shaping it and pounding it down to start all over. “But the stuff’s still there,” he said.
As for me? Yeah, not so much with inspiring work flowing from the sky. (I wish.) Nor with the clay, really. More like long, tortuous mornings and afternoons avoiding the sofa (naps) and the internet (amazingness) and the refrigerator (fatty fat fat), and instead forcing myself to hold a pen over paper, or poise my fingers over the keyboard, and make letters come out. Then make those letters form words, and the words sentences, and the sentences stories.
It’s not always pretty, but I guess it works?
God I hope it works.