Europe, novel
Australia, as everyone knows, is on the opposite side of the world to Europe. When it’s summer in Europe it’s winter in Australia and the converse is true. In January it’s really hot in Australia and the summer is at its height whilst in Europe it’s colder than a witch’s tit. I left Sydney and it’s 30 degrees a week ago to arrive in London where it’s minus four. The air in London was so cold I didn’t want to breathe so I moved on to Spain.
I am now in the mountains of the Al Pujarra, about an hour inland from Granada, in a tiny Spanish village at an elevation of about 500 metres. The foothills around the village stretch to the mountains whose peaks are covered in snow. The sea is about an hour away. I have visited neither the mountains nor the sea, for I am here to write. I am torn between writing the continuing saga of my life following on from my first book (You Can’t Always Get What You Want) and writing a novel.
I would like to write a novel, albeit an autobiographical one, as I have felt for my whole life that I am something like a character that discovered early on he was trapped in a novel. Maybe I could in some strange way write myself out of my own life! It would be fun to see where the endeavour to write a novel led me – where my characters would eventually end up.
The beauty of the novel form, I tell myself, is it would allow me to plunder the lives of my friends for material whilst disguising my own experiences as those of other people. I think of Kerouac and On The Road and all the writers who’ve transmuted the lead of their lives into the gold of literary endeavour by disguising themselves in their books. I think of Henry Miller and his writings. Henry and his ladies sprawled across the pages of his books like they sprawled across their own lives with legs wide apart and hearts open and delicious lusts wantonly embraced for the page to eventually enjoy.
This morning, I tell myself, I shall write a novel. It seems like a novel morning! But first I must light the fire. Then I must keep listening for the car horn of the Panadero. He comes into the village delivering fresh bread each morning. Then I must arrange for a bottle of gas so that the hot water heater works and I can have a shower and I have to work out how to get the refrigerator not to freeze everything solid so that I can use the milk for my coffee. In a small village in Spain there are no external distractions from writing, they all exist right beside one’s elbows.
And I must walk to the local garage which doubles as an Internet café. I have a blog to maintain and the business of getting my book published in America to attend to. My knees are cold and the fire needs lighting. The novel will have to wait because I’m already in the middle of a real novel and the main character’s hands are freezing. It’s winter in Europe and the day has begun and before anything else, it’s time to get warm.
© Sam Cutler 2009
