What has been so odd and so much ferocious fun, all throughout the long working-out of this novel that turned into two novels – one, I thought, a sequel – before then coalescing back into one novel again, longer and more intricate than anything I have ever done, is the level of desire present in the writing.  That sounds academic; it’s not, it’s so not.

“Engaging with the text” – what this has been, from research through notes through the daily act of the writing itself – has sort of been more like having an affair with the text: rushing downstairs each morning to get to work; sneaking back into the file before I go to bed, reading through the day’s pages, tweaking and adjusting; and then up in the morning to dive in all over again.  Not to mention buttonholing my friends with progress reports and little snippets and snatches of the plot, the characters, etc., the way you do with a new love who’s just so, you know, fucking adorable.  Teilhard de Chardin talks about “the energies of love,” and love has powered this book, from beginning to the end that’s now in right.  What all this means, I have no idea, but if I’ve never had more fun with a book – and I haven’t – that’s got to translate into more joy for the reader, too.