An idea for a novel is like a glance at something in the distance: an outline of a city. A city that calls me to come closer. 

Or, it may not even be an outline, just a glimpse of a promise beyond some high walls: a tower, patches of colour, or a forested piece of land that may be part of its inner landscape.

The city-as-novel calls me, and the only way to discover it is by walking through its paved streets, slowly – by paying attention to details, seeping into its scents and lone tunes.

And this walking through it may take a long time. 

Some days I may need to walk in the rain, or in the frost, or I may need to walk exhausted – until I come across an unexpected part of the city to spur me on.

There will be bad weather no matter whether I stay put or walk on.

But the more I linger, the more I forget what the city is like, the less I remember how drawn I was to it. 

It is only by walking – serendipitous walking – that I discover how different...