I started writing the Guardian article about two hours before it was due. There was just enough time to hand my rough draft to Iain for edits (he suggested perhaps five, all minor and most about British word usage), and turned it in without further revision.
The editors asked me to expand the piece by one third, and thirty minutes later they accepted my changes with only one small request for clarification. The essay as published on Saturday is almost identical to the first version I scrambled out without enough caffeine Thursday morning.
For better or worse, this is how I work – intermittently, with sustained bursts of productivity. I write every day for several hours, and take notes incessantly, but I produce a finished product only in thrall to an external deadline.
This is because I write for the sake of writing, not to create a marketable commodity. But when I have agreed to produce something for publication the reason is even more basic: I was trained in a very specific and disciplined method where an essay as properly formulated is constructed and executed while a timer clicks in sixty minute intervals.
When I made the mistake of mentioning this to my agent she replied by text I’ve decided you’re going to do fiction next. I want a good literary novel by the end of the summer please.
I said that I lack the skills for such endeavors and she responded Well write about your past disguised as fiction like every other first time novelist!
When I pointed out that Lessons in Taxidermy mines all of the bits of my history I am willing to put on public display, and that my ethical code does not allow harvesting outside of certain boundaries, she just said Nonsense!
Susan is of course overly optimistic. The other day Jeffrey was telling me a scandalous tale and shopped just short of the juicy bits, saying I’ll leave the rest up to your imagination!
I protested But I don’t have one!