It’s more Robbe-Grillet to become Robbe-Grillet, or at least one of his novels.
Yesterday though, I did spend four hours reading a riveting work of non-fiction: part memoir, part philosophical enquiry, part ‘to do list’ and amateur meteorological record, it was by turns funny, heartbreaking, boring and banal; it dealt obsessively with a small cast of characters and a limited number of themes. Yes, week nine of The Artist’s Way requires me to go back and read my Morning Pages. All sixty one of them. I was meant to note insights which the writing had excavated from my deep subconscious and list necessary actions to implement my heart’s desire. Four hours and a splitting headache later (I have the smallest handwriting imaginable) I made the astounding discovery that I have written a lot about how I want to write a novel and that the action required in order to achieve this is sitting down and writing it.
But hang on. My desire to write a novel was the whole point of picking up The Artist’s Way in the first place. Things may be getting a little circular now. Two hours into my notebook it was beginning to bear a dangerous resemblance to the Robbe-Grillet novel I read for A-level French. All the words were clear but there was no coherent meaning discernible. The same things kept happening to the same people at different times but with minor unsettling details changed each time. Scary. My life is an experimental French novel.