03 December 1997
I have been thinking about stations. Not trains, exactly. Trains are too clean a metaphor and therefore suspect. Stations interest me because they are full of people pretending not to wait.
The new piece, if it becomes a piece and not another splendidly labelled folder, begins with a woman who keeps arriving early for departures she has no intention of taking. Her name is Miriam for now, though that may be too Biblical and therefore too eager. She knows the timetables. She knows the refreshment counter man, regrettably. She knows which platform has the best echo.
The useful problem is structure. I could write it as seven stations on a line, each stop revealing one dishonest fact about her. Or I could make each section a missed connection, with the real story appearing in the gaps between announcements. The risk is cleverness. Cleverness has killed more drafts than incompetence in this house.
Business remains nonexistent. This is no longer news. What is news, at least to me, is that the technical problem still gives pleasure. For an hour this evening I was not thinking about statements, sales, or the dreadful politeness of indifference. I was thinking: she cannot go north because north is where the lie began.
That is something. Not enough, no. But something with a pulse.