I’m waiting for the man- a round and jolly old man in a bright red suit and hat, with a snowy white pompom and a snowy white beard, living in a very snowy place. He has always been old, but he does not age; I assume he lives forever. His Mrs. does too, and I assume she is an excellent cook.
Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Yesterday I was in my kitchen baking Linzer Torte with the windows open when I heard kids outside yell out, “That’s Coco’s house.” Soon the door was pounding. Bubbling behind the door, you’d think it was the Kaiser’s birthday party. They had balloons and chocolate leaf cookies and wanted to play with her.
Some of us will never tire of these stories, with their black-tied gloom and elegant suffering, and will therefore relish the beauty and melancholy of the voyage, along with what looks like tourist snapshots in black and white and heart-tugging music.
It’s crucial for a writer to feel whatever issue or emotion you’re writing about. The best way to do this is to identify with a character and be moved by their sorrows and concerned about their situation.
Every so often I’m asked about writers and money. Surprisingly, I’m never asked about prizes for writers. Anyone in the arts knows you’re in it for love and prize money validates your effort with recognition, respect and prestige.