![]() I had never tried to put so many different components-characters, description, dialogue, narrative, set pieces, humor, history, science, and so forth-into a single package. If I was blocked by fear, I was also stymied by inexperience. The piece would ultimately consist of some five thousand sentences, but for those two weeks I couldn’t write even one. I had assembled enough material to fill a silo, and now I had no idea what to do with it. I had read all the books I was going to read, and scientific papers, and a doctoral dissertation. I had done all the research I was going to do-had interviewed woodlanders, fire watchers, forest rangers, botanists, cranberry growers, blueberry pickers, keepers of a general store. I had spent about eight months driving down from Princeton day after day, or taking a sleeping bag and a small tent. The subject was the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey. I went inside for lunch, surely, and at night, of course, but otherwise remained flat on my back on the table. At the end of summer, 1966, I lay down on it for nearly two weeks, staring up into branches and leaves, fighting fear and panic, because I had no idea where or how to begin a piece of writing for The New Yorker. Out the back door and under the big ash was a picnic table. Construction by Stephen Doyle / Photograph by Grant Cornett ![]() And now I had no idea what to do with it. I had done all the research I was going to do, assembled enough material to fill a silo. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |