there is a novel inside of me

from march 20:

and in these days where i’m not wasting my time in front of the internet, i can feel it percolating under the surface—that novel that i’ve long felt is inside of me. i think it comes from reading siri hustvedt’s latest novel—the sorrow of an american—and also her book of essays—a plea for eros—and realizing how much autobiography is in her novels. that somehow makes me feel “authorized” to write from what i know. to set the novel in the settings i know and to use characters that are based on people i know. one doesn’t have to use their stories per se, but just their characteristics. and perhaps my own, which are, of course, the ones i know best of all. one never really knows what stories lurk underneath the surface, does one?