A Vision

Writing a book is hard

As I lay down to sleep beneath the large pine tree that had inspired me to write “Friendship,” I was pursued by a vision of Donald Trump in ivory livery.

“Are you a writer?” he asked, pointing to Ellmann’s biography of Joyce.

“Yes,” I said.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You should be at your desk. You should be writing.”

He was right that I had left home to escape my work. I had just started a novel. Yet I was already unsure how to proceed. Over the preceding years, I had assembled the entire plot inside my mind, so that I felt I knew exactly the story I wanted to tell. I saw my novel as a pyramid, with an arc that rose from hell up to a false apex that then fell into hell’s ambiguous inversion. But I could not now find the words to tell that story. I had an outline, but how to attach language to it? A novel, it seemed, required more than a few good thoughts.

“I am here because this is where a writer comes when they are stuck,” I said. “I have gone for a walk after lunch.”

I had the impression, honed by years of study, that many writers went for walks after lunch. A professional writer woke early, to compose in solitude, or woke late, to putz around and answer letters (now emails?) before their repast. They had lunch prepared for them by a loyal wife (sexism!), or maid (classism!), then walked through a park with their hands knotted behind their back, their brows furrowed significantly.

“Neruda went for walks. As did Wordsworth.”

“No,” Trump said. “That is all wrong. You have completely misunderstood their methods. When an author goes for a walk, he does not sleep on his back.”

I looked shyly about.

“I was tired. It’s been very hot. I could either rest out here, open to free association, or stay indoors, blinking at the ceiling.” My eyes grew stern. “Even this, in a way, is proof my plan has worked. I would not have imagined our conversation indoors.”

“Imagined?” said Trump. “There is no imagination here. I am making a serious intervention.”

“I still don’t see the severity in our conversation.”

“It appears you will not finish your novel at all if you continue this way.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“No, you will not. You are a lazy man by character. I can see it in you.”

I will admit that I have grown flabbier over the preceding weeks. I am unsure how to put together a schedule, now that I am writing. Previously, my job forced me to rise early and go to bed late. Though I struggled with it, I was always productive. I worked on the train every day, writing blog posts, messaging friends and going to the gym. But now, I can hardly rouse myself in the morning. I am eager for nothing so much as food and sleep.

“Are you depressed?” Trump asked.

“No, I don’t think so. From time to time, I’m sad. And I have many yearnings. But I wouldn’t say that I’m depressed.”

“Hm,” said Trump. “Then why are you here?”

“Well, I’m here because I have to reflect.”

“Hm,” said Trump. “But then why do you always look so sad?”

“I look sad because I’m thinking,” I said.

“A thinking man need not be sad. I, indeed, am never sad.”

I began to wonder why Trump had appeared to me. Surely, he was not my muse?

“No. No, that’s not right at all. You see, I’ve come here to find a moment of peace. I’m looking for, well, inspiration. I’m hoping the words will come to me when I lie on my back, reading about another writer—who lived, for a time, not so far away from here.”

“It’s a bit pretentious, don’t you think? You could have chosen a more moderate talent. Maybe Graham Greene? Or Max Frisch. He lived here, in Switzerland.”

“Yes, I agree. These would be good writers to study. But this is the biography I had at home. And I like Joyce. I like his humor.”

“No. No, no, no. You will have to lower your ambitions.”

“I will. I have! My ambitions, I assure you, are quite moderate. I would be happy with even a middling success. I would like to be read. I would like to change at least one mind. To express myself thoroughly. But I don’t think that necessitates familiarity with only middling talents.”

“No, it does not. But still, I believe you are going about this all wrong.”

“I don’t know how else to go about this. It’s my first time trying. I feel as though I have been thrown into a race without knowing the rules or how long it’ll be until it ends. How does one prepare for writing a book?”

“You write every day.”

“I did write! Most days. But I didn’t write a novel every day. That would be something entirely different.”

“Many people have written a novel.”

“Yes! And many more have failed to do so.”

“Hm. You will be one of those. The failures.”

With that, Trump gave a last gaunt stare at our surroundings. His jowls appeared to shake in disappointment. The sky was a pale white blue. Trump faded up into it. I stared for a long time at the big pine tree that had once inspired me.