When you look at a mathematical fractal, you see self-similarity; not only do different parts of the figure look almost alike, it looks the same as you zoom in and out of it, its form governed by the parameters of the iterative algorithm that generates it. Can narratives similarly iterate by filling time rather than space, recapitulating condensed or expanded versions of events and examples of themes?
Today, I am reveling, writing in Edith Wharton’s house, The Mount. It’s quiet. I am sitting at a small table in front of a window in the room on the third floor that was Henry James’ bedroom. I knew I wanted to write from an early age but lacked the courage to pursue my dream. I was a born reader but that didn’t mean I could write. It’s not that easy.