Ah, the joys of air travel.  It was a wonderful weekend in New York, a real reunion, full of family members I haven’t seen in months and even some I haven’t seen in years. I’m so glad I went, and my still reduced stamina wouldn’t have given me much trouble if not for the return flight home.  We awoke early in order to get the 8 am flight only to find out at 10 am that it had to be cancelled due to technical problems.  So, eleven hours later, we boarded the dreaded overnight flight. One movie (Woody Allen’s latest, “Vicki Cristina Barcelona”), one meal, 3 hours of lying there awake with my eyes closed, 2 hours of Heathrow nonsense and London traffic before I was nearly crawling on my hands and knees up the stairs to my bed for a couple of hours sleep.  And now here I am, attempting to compose a semi-coherent blog post.  As the members of the old Mickey Mouse Club used to say (now I’m really showing my age), “Why? Because we love you.”

In my delirium, I did a lot of thinking.  First, I decided that I must, for my own sanity, stop spending so much of my time and energy thinking about how I’m going to sell my work, publicize my novel, produce my play, submit my poetry  etc etc.  2008 was a very big year for me, but in some ways it now feels as if I tried to squeeze an entire career’s-worth of accomplishments into twelve months.  It’s time to stop forcing, to start trusting, and get back to the joy of the work. (In a few months, somebody out there please remind me that I made this decision….)  And I started to think about how I was going to proceed with writing novel 2 now that I can feel myself getting ready to get back to work. The first draft of everything except the last chapter is written and I had assumed I would just persevere to the end and then go back to the beginning and do the first big batch of edits/additions/deletions.  But I think I’m going to do something very unusual for me.  I think I might leave that last chapter unwritten for a while and go back to page one now.  Somehow that feels right, and maybe it will yield some surprises for the end.  The idea of working in this new way is getting me excited about the book again, which is a good thing because I’m already finding myself casting my eye around for ideas for novel 3.  Too soon, too soon. 
All this wondering and thinking then reminded me of one of my favourite writers, someone I’ve learned so much from and have so much respect for — Anthony Trollope.  Yes, I know, he’s just an old Victorian with an overgrown beard who cared too much about fox hunting and was

 A-type compulsive to beat the band.  And yet, I love him.  I love his novels.  I love his voice, his characters (especially his women), his humour and his audacity.  And I remembered that this summer I finally got a chance to read his Autobiography, and the entire time I was reading it I was thinking about how I wanted to put some of his pearls of wisdom into a blog.  So here they are:
*About his mother, Fanny Trollope: She continued writing up to 1856, when she was seventy-six years old — and had at that time produced 114 volumes of which the first was not written till she was fifty.  Her career offers great encouragement to those who have not begun early in life but are still ambitious to do something before they depart hence.
* …I took in good part [the publisher] Mr. Colburn’s assurance that he could not encourage me in the [writing] career I had commenced. I would have bet twenty to o
ne against my own success. But, by continuing, I could lose only pen and paper, and if the one chance in twenty did turn up in my favour, then how much might I win!
* About an early work, “La Vendee”: I had, however, received £20.  Alas, alas, years were to roll by before I should earn by my pen another shilling.
* My novels, whether good or bad, have been as good as I could make them. Had I taken three months of idleness between each they would have been no better. Feeling convinced of this I finished ‘Doctor Thorne’ on one day, and began ‘The Bertrams’ on the next.
* More than nine-tenths of my literary work has been done in the last twenty years, and during twelve of those years I followed another profession. I have never been a slave to this work, giving due time if not more than due time to the amusements I have loved. But 
I have been constant — and constancy in labour will conquer all difficulties.

There’s much more, but this is probably enough for now.  All I can say is, “Thanks, Uncle Anthony.”