The Writing Life
The Washington Post [29th May 2005]
The big break of a writer’s career comes — unexpectedly — at a wild, drunken party in a remote Thai village.
“Shun security,” I advise aspiring novelists when they complain to me that they are stuck. “Get disoriented. Maybe your agonizing writing block isn’t agonizing enough. Your enemy is comfort.”
It is quite amazing how hard the subconscious works when it is made to understand that this life is not a rehearsal, there is no safety net and no assurance of any final closure. It is also quite appalling to realize how catatonic the imagination can become when we hedge our bets, opt for the safer direction at every fork in the path. These truths I discovered reluctantly and by accident after decades of resistance.
I wanted to write a thriller set in an exotic location. It was to be that make-or-break third novel. I first tried Morocco, but it was simply not known well enough in the West. I flew to Hong Kong, where I had worked as a lawyer for more than a decade. Under the surface, Hong Kong is as Asian as any other city in that part of the world, but it presented itself as far too Western for my purposes. I then tried Bangkok, which formed part of the Western frame of reference but looked exactly as Asian as it was. I stayed for a year, made friends with many of the young women who worked the bars, talked to cops whenever I could, studied the Bangkok Post as if it were a legal brief, forced my tongue around Thai syllables, learned to love the place with a passion, but produced no work of any value. I was desperate and on my third draft, which yet again I had written in the third person. I know now that I was leading too comfortable a life in my Western-style apartment with air conditioning, cable TV, Internet, lunches and suppers with Western chums at excellent French and Italian restaurants, first-class medical attention at the internationally accredited Bumrungrad Hospital, and this comfort made me risk-averse at all levels, including the creative.