问答题
When I write a story I want to make a certain kind of structure, and I know the feeling I want to get from being inside that structure. This is the hard part of the explanation, where I have to use a word like "feeling", which is not very precise, because if I attempt to be more intellectually respectable, I will have to be dishonest. "Feeling" will have to do.
There is no blueprint for the structure. It"s not a question of, "I"ll make this kind of house because if I do it right it will have this effect." I"ve got to make, I"ve got to build up, a house, a story, to fit around the indescribable "feeing" that is like the soul of the story, and which I must insist upon in dogged, embarrassed way, as being no more definable than that. And I don"t know where it comes from. It seems to be already there, and some unlikely clue, such as a shop window or a bit of conversation, makes me aware of it. Then I start accumulating the material and putting it together. Some of the material I may have lying around already, in memories and observations, and some I invent, and some I have to go diligently looking for (factual details), while some is dumped in my lap (anecdotes, bits of speech). I see how this material might go together to make the shape I need, and I try it. I keep trying and seeing where I went wrong and trying again.