the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
January 31, February 1st ,Vancouver 2012. It is wet outside. The writer scratches her hair, her head. The phrase “it is wet outside” is not very accurate, “it is drizzling” would be better. She looks down at her umbrella on the moss-green floor, she has to tilt her chair to see it. The writer is back in the library of the community college on 49th, she is once more typing, typing. She is once more starting the great American novel, which is, technically spoken, the wrong term, she is not American, this is not a novel. Voices in the back, today is January 31st. the year? 2012. She still makes mistakes, writes 2011 instead of 2012. Old age, old age. She is 56 going on 57, it does not really make any difference, she could be 10, she could be 90. She was born old, that is what happens with the all-American female nerd. The term all-American, once more wrong, once more wrong. Author ponders, she has it all wrong. She is utterly confused and it shows in her writing. That is why she is unpublished, despite a super-prolific output, the words are all incoherent, the sentences fragmented. She is not able to hang on to a thought, that is what happens when you watch too much TV. Short attentionspan, short attention span, bold and beautiful did you in, did you in. ah, the memories of a couch potato, how is that for a booktitle? She could title this text like that, she could start querying agents, she always does that, always, always, always. Her queries sail thru cyberspace, fifty already in January, that is how it is, that is how it is. The writer- the next day. She is sitting in UBC, the University of British Columbia, in the most awkward chair there is. How can you type, if you are in an arm chair, where did they find this chair? Yes, it is a library, but, hey, you cannot just take all the readingish, comfy armchairs and put them in front of computers, that a computerlab don’t make. Author/writer here pauses, her syntax is slightly off, maybe it could soldier on as stylistic idiosyncrasy, who knows, who knows? She types fast and furious, she has sent out 50 queries in 30 days, all through January of 1
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
2012. it is now, February first, she still has no publisher, no agent. She lives her life agentless, which is ok, there are more pressing, more awful things. A free-lancing writer, that is what she is. Now. Unpublished, too. But, hey, she will be published, eventually. If you build it they will come, can the movie be wrong? Let us just keep on building, better then being shoved into an insane asylum. If you don’t write you go insane, that is how hard your passion for writing burns. Your wish your want for the process of creating something, anything. Obviously, you could cook or clean, but, apparently, women of a certain age run away from their domestic duties. So her prof posited last year, the writer is a writer, not a housewife anymore, not a homemaker, not, not. Not that a writer is not some kind of glorified housewife, not that, not that. Author here ponders, her insights are smashing, they always are , always are. She should go back to poetry, to animation, to painting, to something, something. There has to be more than one person in this book. There have to be players, characters. The man to her right, or is it her left, is pretty good, he has curly hair and looks at his monitor, while having his head lean into his left hand. He is pensive, maybe, though he might be a regular facebook stalker. Ah, mark zuckerberg, look what you’ve started, and your company is going public these days. Author here ponders, if she should somehow tie this in with palo alto, but she is distracted by the woman in the far who is turning her pencil; around. By the high ceilings here. Ah, the writer, not able to hold on to any congruent thought, and she is not able to decipher what CONGRUENT means. She just types and types and types and types away. She has 703 words, so is that enough for a start, a start of a 100 000 word novel, one that is lacking a plot , a character, one that is so very very plotless. Storyarc, schmoryarc. The writer ponders, she should join a meetup group for writers, that should be fun fun. Critiques that smash you, make you wither away under the barrage of influxing negativity, she has enough e-rejections already. At least 300 2
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
of them, 300, 300. and our writer here, types, types, types, types some more. And stop, and spellcheck, spellcheck. (802 words). She leans back in the arm chair, her first bout of spellchecking is over. What now, what next. What next? The writer ponders if she should put commas where they belong, question marks where they belong, should she, should she, or should she forego orthographical conventions in order to make the text more lively. What should she do, should she close her eyes and fashion a character, a male one, to opposite her female protagonist aka THE WRITER. Should she name the characters, should she make a little maquette with CHARACTER A, CHARACTER B, CHARACTER C. and what would the plot be? The subject matter? The writer scratches her head, the subject matter should be, what else, writing. Yay for writing. She should fashion a story about different hapless writers who try to publish their books but do not find a publisher. The after November nano crowd. Nano stands for National Novel Writing Month, the writer ponders how she should infuse her explanations eloquently, is there even a way to do this, how can you do that? Should you even explain stuff, in the time of google, readers can easily look up stuff, they can they should. Writing these days, ah, publishing these days. What with cyberspace, there are a lot of polemics to analyze, and author is not quite sure, if she used the word POLEMICS in the right way, the right way. She is hunched over, typing typing, her next all-Canadian novel is taking form, taking form. All-American, all-Canadian, all- Italian. All-earthy. She scratches her head, she could make this story all about identity crises, not that she cares one way or another. That is not her target-audience, people that are hung up on racism, then again, she could go the seinfeldian way and insult all ethnic groups, no discrimination, none and none and none. She ponders, ponders, ponders. The room here is nice, she is out of words, has no plot no plot no plot. Somehow she skeetered off-course, has to rewrite this, rewrite this. She could, should 3
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
rename this text, re-title it. THE WRITER or SEINFELD MADE ME DO IT. Huh, huh? That is quite a catchy title, people will pick it up like warm buns, all the bibliophiles in Powell’s, Portland, the ones that hover around St. Marks Bookshop, before it is eaten up by Cooper Union. How to write a novel how to write a novel how to write a novel. Hmmm, and we have 1217 words here, not bad, how did writers write in the olden times, before word count buttons, how and how and how? The writer looks at the monitors of the people next to her, one is an aspiring doctor, one is an aspiring Francophile. Fast forward forty years, a guy in a white coat, with glasses and beard, one a grandma. Things never change, now do they do they? And we type and type and type ourselves into oblivion, ah, oblivion. -------------------------------------------THE WRITER OF THE 21ST CENTURY NOVEL- she kind of likes this title, seems, she changes the title every two seconds, the title evolves organically, that is how she will explain it to Charlie Rose, if and when he is asking. She will wear a red hat on the show, the reason is, of course, because a woman in a red, asymmetric hat sat down in front of the computer opposite of her, her hat is kinda weird, the writer should take a photo, there are not enough words in the English language or any language for that matter to describe that hat. Weird is a good word, it sums up that particular hat. The writer spent her minutes by researching industry news, publishers weekly, galleycat, new york times articles, the website of farrar geroux straus, whatever, the most fascinating article she came upon was a description of a writer who goes to the athenaeum each and every day, apparently that is a library in boston, and types his texts, his texts. Author, writer ponders, she 4
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
will do the same, she will get a communitycard for 100 bucks and come here, each and every day and type up all her masterpieces, all thoses great books books. All her novels, her works of fiction, she will fashion the persona of THE WRITER, she will will will. What with cocaine habit or drunken stupor, what with pearls and pink cardigans, grandma writer or seafaring, bearded adventurer, anyarchetype will do, should do. The persona of a writer, can change in seconds, seconds. Listening in to the muse, whatever she is, wherever she is. And, hey, it is pretty debatable if she is a he or a she. Apparently, there was a film called THE MUSE, with Sharon Stone, but, hey, we digress, digress. And we type and type and type. There should be another character in this book. Not just the WRITER. Another writer, maybe, a male one. One that sits in the cafeteria one stock below this one. Has a soggy sandwich in his hand, bites on it, washes it down with cold chamomile tea. The WRITER, the original one, the one of this text, the female one, scratches her head, somehow, a guy drinking chamomile tea is a kinda wonky type, an unbelievable character, male characters have to have muscles and extra testosterone, or else, or else. She foregoes the task of creating another character, she seems to be not good at this, she’d rather write about herself, about this room, maybe, on the second floor of the Barber Learning Center, in UBC, it could be the third floor, people have come and gone, she is still typing here, typing here. It is 2:42, still February first, still 2012. Her words accumulate, which is good, the manuscript marches forward, forward. Manuscripts don’t march forward, you idiot, idiot. Somehow, the writer notices that she is going arguably insane, but that is fine fine fine. She is losing it ever so slightly, must be this arm chair, must be the noise in the back, must be, must be. This room is spectacular, you should really come and see it, next time you are in the city, yep, why not why not why not. Author slash writer ponders, it does not help that she starts surfing the 5
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
web in between writing spurts. But, whatever, we are on top of page six here, this could be her new novel writing month, 50 000 words, maybe, 100 000 in February February. And we type and type and type. Type type type. Type. 1892 words it is, it is. On February first of the year 2012. her insightless ramblings, the drivel poured onto the keyboard, ah, let us write and write and write. And write write write. ----------------------------------------------------------and what happened while we were typing away, what nugget of news did we stumble upon, while uploading our great masterpiece here. Yep, facebook went public, well, not quite, they filed for going public, biggest IPO ever, the author slash writer is not quite sure of the correct terms, anyhoo, FACEBOOK GOING PUBLIC, while we are composing our lowly little new novel here. She scratches her head, is not quite sure, how to incorporate that news into the fabric of this book, ah, who knows and knows and knows. We have 2000 words here, and that is all that counts that counts that counts. -----------------------------------------Shit that WRITERS say, shit writers say, there is a good title, especially ‘cause the world is awash with you tube movies, of the “shit- fill in the blank-say”-kind. Last year, everything was OCCUPY this, OCCUPY that, this year it is SHIT so-and-so says, so-and-so say. Sign of the times. THE WRITER scratches her head, her writing sucks, ah, sign of the times, sign of the times. She used to be good at writing, utterly eloquent, those days are over, over. She watches NEW ADVENTURES OF OLD CHRISTINE-reruns on the green couch, this cannot be enough fodder for a novel. Watching TV as plotline. That should work, has to, has to. ---------------------------6
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
February second and we are at it again. Writing, fast, furiously. Without a plot, but, hey, that is how it is how it is. It is what it is. Nice, that one can fill the air with platitudes when one has nothing to say. Fillers, fillers. Hey, you cannot be profound all the time, there is ample space for banal observations, clichÊs, the like the like the like. Hooray 4 repetitions. For terms like lol. Testing, s-e-x-ting. Yesterday facebook filed for getting public. But we said that already, already. The US wages war, wherever she can. Yep, still the same, still the same. Same old same old same old. Author here ponders if she should wage a flaming pen like a sword against the atrocities of this world. In short, if she should write political stuff. If that is her mission. Nope, she writes in the same way a plumber changes the plumbing of a house. Art as craft, writing as function. Something like that, something of that kind. Author here sits in her old alma mater, the art school that gave her a certificate, spat her out and said: well, now you are on your own. Sink or swim, sink or swim. Well, she basically works on her sinking skill, as seems to be the case for all of the 300 and something creatures that sailed over the stage in may of 2010. We are not tomorrow’s twenty under forty, not tomorrow’s twenty over sixty. We are bad artists, bad film makers, bad writers. In her case, very very very bad writers. Yep, the days of a writer, her syntax, her grammar, her choice of words, wonky as always, ah, to be able to write outta kilter outta kilter. the fumes from the ocean factory, like always, like always. Author ponders, she should annotate her writings, no one will understand her non-footnoted waxing, ah, to write to write to write. Whining as art form, how do you do that, do that. Eloquent whining, an art form in itself, in itself. 2484 words, aha, not bad and bad and bad. -----------------------------------------------------------------------
7
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
Still sitting in the same seat, slight headachy pangs, still typing, fast, furiously, fast, furiously. Skimming the internet, so much to see, so many films, who has the time, who has the time. Apparently, author here has the time, it is really nice that a person refers to herself as “author here”, “author here” instead of “I”, the third person instead of the first person. Kind of like George Costanza referring to himself as “George” and author here is losing it, ever so slightly ever so slightly. This is what her life has come to, this is what she has sunk to, hovering around the library, typing up semi-strange passages, trying to convince herself that this is literature. There are two journals in her basement waiting to be transcribed, which seems to be writerspeak for typing it up, anyhoo, she is shopping her manuscripts around, which is another talkingshoppish term she picked up. Ah, to be a poet a poet a poet. And what is the dif, between poet and writer, how does this work how how how. Outside, still the oceanfactory. Inside here, slight toastiness, she is hungry, she is, she is. She fragments all these words into the keyboard, one letter at a time, one letter, one letter. 2707, hmm. We are marching forward, maybe she will make it to five thousand, come midnight, come midnight. Ah to type to type to type to type. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------Still sitting in the same place, still typing typing typing typing. There is the clickerclacker of other typewriters, the laughs in the back, the noise of the cardreader to her left. Librarians wondering why she is here, there is the steam from the oceanfactory. Author here ponders, she should fashion the persona of a researcher for herself, have books near to the computerstation, wear glasses, scratch her head more often. Well, at least she is wearing a black quasi-turtleneck, in black a la Juliette Greco, she is having her hair in a bun, a la anylibrarian, she ponders, does
8
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
she have a serious face, enough wrinkles, the right aura of unisexness, yep, we can muster that, muster that. And she types, types types. She will have her stuff published eventually eventually. She teeters somewhere between fiction and non-fiction, she is losing it losing it. Melancholia sets in, dumbness, the like, the like. Stupidity, there for the measuring, there for the measuring. Her writing does not really make sense, coherence, ah, so yesterday so yesterday. Steam from the ocean factory, lots of it, lots, lots. She should have brie and a beret, somehow, that is more artistic than just sitting here and shivering. 2990 words, the little icon is not really visible, too tiny, 2 tiny. And we type and type and type. Author here just looked through announcements of writer residencies, somehow, she does not feel like applying for one. They are all kinda shifty, they have not much to do with writing, they have to do with leaving your place and venturing out into the world. They are slightly on the adventurous side, we do not need that don’t need that. Writing is about a room of her own, it is about a computer of her own. And in her case it is about sitting at one of the free computers in town, in one of the many many libraries. You can put your stuff in cyberspace, archive it in the clouds in the clouds. A writer in the clouds, ah, shit that writesr say, writers say writers say. 3000 words, and then some and then some and then some. Let’s stop this now, let’s take our left hand and slide it over the black keyboard, like a pianist in a grand gesture, like rose in the golden girls, yep, that way that way that way. Author here could care less that her connotations are silly and dull, coherence does not live here anymore anymore anymore. Shit writers say, yep, author here sure is good at bullshitting, that is how it is how it is how it is. And we still have no plot no plot no plot. ----------------------------------------------------------------------and let's retitle this to “painter writer animator”. Sounds slightly catchy, but, like always, there is a dilemma, should the words be followed by a comma, should there be three words and two 9
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
commas, should the words be capitalized or not, or some of them, should it be this way, that way or the other. Author here is now sitting in the downtown library, the person next to her watches you-tube videos and chuckles, or maybe facebook videos, he has something that says MOST POPULAR VIDEOS, see, there is a lot to see, when you walk through this city, there is a lot to observe and a lot to document. And you thought that this text has no plot, ah, you just venture out into the world, you will start writing, writing. Author here ponders if she should rent a studio on main and start throwing paint at canvasses, after all, she studied painting and animation, animation is more fun, but watching the films on the monitor next to her is fun, too, all the films are comical and funny. Author scratches her head, well, she would, if her glasses were not in the way, she missed big bang theory, and, furthermore, she missed the new adventures of old christine, she will make it in time home for king of queens, the office and two and a half men, in the night, there will be seinfeld and frasier. Ssomehow these are not the pursuits of a literary giant, thus, maybe, she is not a literary giant after all. What is the female form of GIANT? Giantess? And we type and type and type. Person next to her chuckles, author has to laugh, too, while typing, they say, laughter is contagious, yep, that is how it is how it is. And we have approximately 3500 words here, not bad, not bad, not bad. Heap on the words, she ponders, why she is so congratulatory. And stop and spellcheck, spellcheck. ----------------------------------------------------------must be February three. Sitting in the oakridge library, for a change, for a change. The writer cozies up to all the different libraries in the Lower Mainland, each equipped with well-tuned computers waiting for her input. 10
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
At this speed, she can produce 600 000 words per year, give or take, 6 million words in ten years. George Orwell just produced a million words, she read that somewhere, she ponders if the amount of words put down on paper has anything to do with the quality of the words. She ponders if it would be better to type 100 words per minute, to be a fluent ten finger typer, or if her peck and choose method will garner equally valid results. This is what writers think about, yep, not subject matter, plot, the like, the like. They stalk their agents on twitter, and if they do not have an agent they stalk their potential agents. Thus, they know who drank too much on a friday night, who went to the hamptons, who has a crush on who. Some young folks in new york city that hold her destiny in their collective hands. Writer here ponders if she should become an agent herself, she just might put a shingle outside her bathroom door. Writer as agent, book sold by owner. Usually, properties sold by owner do not sell, but, hey, this is a recession, real estate bubble, foreclosures, freddie and mac, everything goes everything everything. Her marketing plan, her marketing plan. These days she studies the bookmarket more than she writes, she reads books like the discussion between umberto eco and some french guy about the future of books, umberto states posits claims that books will never go out of vogue, people want to read PETER PAN on a tablet, but, at one point, they want to own their very own PETER PAN. Fetishizing bibliophiles, they will make writers survive. Author here ponders, is she even a writer, given that her fingers start hurting, because this keyboard is annoying, you have to push the buttons really down and given that she mostly uses the right middle finger, her ability to write further is definitely compromised. There is always something, something physical, that stands in the way of her creative pursuits. When animating, your hand gets numb from drawing the same image over and over, when painting, the smell of the paints does you in, when acting, stage fright grapples you by the throat, and then again, all of this does not pay not pay not pay. And if you
11
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
become rich and famous, the paparazzi will take photos of you first thing in the morning when you strut out the door for your morning jog in your pink flannel jump suit. Yep, this is how it is how it is how it is how it is. And we write and write and write. Stop, spellcheck, spellcheck. Ahh, how many many words? 4018, the ubiquitous well done, the pat on the back, the day in the library here, moving forward forward. ---------------------------------------------------------Ron Paul on the telly, the author here lost some of her writing, the computer shut down, out of nowhere, she ponders, her words got lost lost. She tries to reconstruct those words, she remembers some sentences about the virtues of pen and paper, the independence of writing, the not being tied to a machine that might or might not work, on the telly once more Ron Paul on abortion. If the author was American, Ron Paul would definitely have her vote. He is just great. Anyhoo, let us type and type and write. 4118 words, not bad not bad. She looked through the writers’ rooms series in the guardian, you can do that, with a push of a button, you can read an interview with max frisch or umberto eco, with the paris review, and then you can go on typing away, typing away. So, no one will read this, just fine just fine just fine. Her writing is more like jamming, you start up and see where it will take you. The day is moving into the night, the fan works noisily in the kitchen, there is no plot as of yet, the writer just pluckers along, and now she remembers what she was writing about when the computer shot down earlier in the afternoon, she was reminiscing about her tea in the coffeeshop at the corner of 41st and arbutus, that is what is the main subject matter, the main plot of this her story, her walks all over town, her meanderings, not enough for a story, maybe maybe maybe. Somehow she lost her thread, but that seems to happen a lot these days, she will go back in and fragment the text further more, only to collage it later on. Writing is tough, there is no real structure, you just start somewhere and each 12
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
sentence somehow morphs into the next. And let us type and type and type. She feels like having ice cream, maybe she will drive down to the grocery store, anyhoo, let us type and type and type. --------------------------------------------------------------She really feels like having ice cream, vanilla, though there are different ones in the frozen food section, there is something called premium and another one called original, there is soy ice cream, and author here ponders if this is really what one should write about, there are more pressing issues than the slight differences between the differing flavours of ice cream, anyhoo, we have about 4500 words here, save, spellcheck, if you just keep on typing, a story will crystallize, like magic like magic like magic. ---------------------------------------------------------------------february 4, maybe so, once again in the library in oakridge, the chair here is utterly uncomfy, there are only 55 minutes left and for some weird reason it gives the second count away, too, the little icon in the upper corner, she can stare at the second counter, and do that for one hour, somehow, there are better things to do, she should just do her typing, hopefully, a great text will emerge, by accident, by accident. The woman at the other station types fast and furiously, so does the man at the other computer. Are they fashioning their novels, just like author here, is this what people do? Apparently, not everyone is a writer, the amazon contest for best breakout novel took a month to fill up, it took a month to fill up the 5000 spots, seems, not everyone is a writer a writer. Author here ponders, given that all her submissions are rejected, one could think that there is no publishing going on whatsoever, but apparently there is there is there is. Just not for her, just not for her. Her texts lack substance, coherence, the like the like. Lack narratives, lack syntax. Lack 13
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
this and that and the other. Well, they sure don't lack wordcount, we can provide the element of prolificness, even if we twist and turn our sentences in weird and strange ways. Outside, the sun is shining, a nice cozy february day, apparently, there are early springs everywher everywhere. Facebook is going public, it seems to be the big thing that reporters talk about. Especially British reporters, the bbc is awash with analyzing face book, whereas the American stations do their usual cowboy-sih thing, let us start this war or that war or the other. Author ponders, she should use her pen to start changing the world, but, hey, it is not PEN anymore, it is KEYBOARD, she should start a group, a non-profit called KEYBOARD. Everyone is starting an ngo, why not her, not her. She is no teamworky creature, she is a lonely wolf, thus, she might as well stick to writing, unpublished writing. No books from her texts, not yet, not yet, not yet. She has to die first, someone will find her texts in the attic, then she will become an overnight sensation. To be a famous artist, you first have to die and die and die. So the saying goes, writer here types forward, forward. 4880 words, not bad not bad not bad. Might as well hit 5000, she watches the words accumulate, hits the wordcount button, the software here in the library does not show the wordcount automatically, it shows the seconds though, ah, every one of thess computers is weird and strange , they all march to their own little drummers, drummers. 4939, 4939. seventy words more, seventy, seventy. Might as well spellcheck, save, the like the like. One can see the warmness from here, the sun bathing the world, from here, from here. Her words are off, that is ok ok, as long as they accumulate, everything is fine, everything is fine. 4990, just some more words some more words some more words. And... 5000 it is, time to leave, time to leave. Go thru the mall, take the canada line, travel around this city, venture out to burnaby, just, don’t sit still don’t sit still. Write, type, let the day pass you be, why not why not why not why not. She is some kind of poet, a sucky one, but a poet nonetheless. Some kind of artist, an unsuccessful one,
14
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
an artist nonetheless. She has a certificate to prove it, a bachelor of fine arts, whatever that is that is. And the day marches forward, forward, forward. ------------------------------------------------hm, hm, hm, february 5. On the telly, fareed sakaria, gps, a panel discussion about mitt romney, one guy from the new Yorker, another one from the ney york times or another new york daily, author here did not quite get his job description, one woman, another woman, the discussion is lively, everything mitt. Somehow this is not what writer here should describe on a sunny sleepy Sunday morning, she should describe her walk to Kerrisdale, her morning coffee, the silentness of the waking-uppy city, the formulation of her text, in her mind, while walking, her search for words that are utterly eloquent and well constructed but that vanish once you open the house door, the words that merely live while you are outside and are not there anymore once you are at the typewriter, the description of entropy that never ever works, the words that make only sense to the writer and that pass the reader by, always always. the writer on the telly, his name is david brooks and he is an author, his book is THE SOCIAL ANIMAL, author here could google it, the other one is a new Yorker editor, then there is a woman named crystia freeland, and now author here had to take a call and now there is a vacationey ad, all her words are mushing into one word salad, not that good, not that good, not that good. Tonight, there will be the superbowl, author ponders, if she should write ‘bout that, it seems her subject matters are so very random, they amass serendipitously, the sun outside is shining, the day is mild and happy, green leaves outside, the quietness of a writer’s room, author is not quite sure if she should type, write inside, maybe, it is so much better to venture out to the library, the discussions on the telly bombard her thought processes, how can you write while listening in to a short walk thru the herstory of democracy, on the telly, fast fast fast fast fast fast. 15
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
And now an interview with Singapore’s prime minister. Ah, cnn, cnn. How did writers manage to fashion their pieces far away from the 24-hour-bombardment from the telly, how and how and how. Author here notices her writing going strangely array, but, hey, even if this is substandard waxing, horrible musing, we are still at 5476, not bad not bad not bad. ----------------------------------------------------------------5500 words, seems that the interview is taking place against the backdrop of the davos economic forum, author finds it difficult to listen in to the so very nice and polite talking heads, there is laughing when the prime minister says that a naval base in Singapore would be twice as big as Singapore itself, author here is not quite sure if she understood it right, fareed sakaria counters that you have ample amounts of space to put casinos on, author here is utterly confused by all the fragments of words that collapse into her writing, she tries to talk up against the noise pollution, spelling out each and every word that is spoken on the machine, the television. And now we have 5700, outside the sun is shining, inviting the author to leave her seat in front of the laptop, to venture out, to have the slight breeze in her face, anything, but staying put and type and type and type. She sits hunched over, this cannot be good cannot be good. Sentences, as fast as possible, as fast as possible. ---------------------------------------The word COMMENSORATE is used a lot on the telly, author ponders, it is a nice word, pretty big, she has no clue whatsoever what it means, she looks out at the plants, looks down at the paper basket, anyhoo, she types, types, types. ----------------------------------
16
the writer
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2012
end of page 16, top of page 17. The telly still on, lots of different ads, the constant repetition of the same ads, the weird and strange and utterly obstructed, utterly constructed familiarity of the peddling of consumer goods in this weird machine, author ponders if this is her new subject matter, the description of the idiot box, there is Seinfeld, she has seen it lots of time, ah, reruns reruns reruns. Author here ponders how to fashion her query, she has written one already, apparently it is good to write the query at the beginning of your writerly journey, it is kind of like an outline, you can change it once you have your 100 000 words, writing as a very tight, very strict, regimented structure, that is how you craft any artpiece, you have your little blueprint, either on the back of a napkin in a pub, or somewhere loating around in your hippothalamus, you have to plot it down, and then you just execute your idea, and then distribute it, to the masses, the masses. Author ponders, her weird and strange views of art production, so very debatable so very so very. And some more costanza, some more Elaine, the sony tv, against the reflections of the sun, outside, a sunny sunny day, inside, the life of a couch potato, a literary potato, you have to sit still to write, have to sit still to read, some kinda meditation, so it seems so it seems so it seems. Next to six thousand, ah, the wordcount word count. The laughtrack, another ad, watching it out of the corner of your eyes. Pre-superbowl, pre-superbowl. Ah, the fifth of february in 2012, she types and types and types. No plot yet, none, none, none, none, none. Just keep on typing, a story will emerge, has to, has to, has to. And, yep, we have 6000, hooray, hooray, hooray. ------------------------------------------------------Lots of pre-superbowl hype, nice, so this is what author here writes about, this cannot be good, not that good, not that good. How can there be any correlation between the superbowl and literary pursuits, her anti-superbowl-emotions are paramount, you just can’t write good stuff 17
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while watching the super-bowl, this does not go with that, especially if you have no clue whatsoever 窶話out the intricacies of the game, if you are not even quite sure if it is basketball or baseball or football, then, maybe, writing about the game will backfire. Should backfire. The author here ponders, maybe, she should pen her whole novel about the game, there is a very popular narrative, and it is much more fun, if you have no sports knowledge whatsoever. If you are the only poet in a sportsbar, the one who drinks white zinfandel, yep, that one that one that one. And we type, put down, utter bullshit, anyhoo, we have 6190, so that is good is good. It is really weird and strange how they can fill the program, now bob costas is interviewing Madonna, how long is it till the superbowl 46, how long how long how long? And 6229 we have here, so many words so many many words. practice of writing, day-in, day-out, that is how poets are made are made are made. Gotta will yourself, writing is a sport a sport. Yay. And this is where lobrow meets hi-brow. And once more, yay. The singing of the office cast, the 30-rock cast, yay and yay and yay. 6292, not bad, not bad, not bad @ all. ------------------------------------------------------------------------february 6 hunched-over sitting, she should produce 2000 words, has to, has to. A black squirrel outside, running by, coming back, a very big one, more a beaver than a squirrel. Could be one with child, anyhoo, author here is sitting once more in front of the laptop, typing and typing. There are cooking shows, why are there no writing shows. The meticulous documenting of the writing process, highlighting, well, the highlights, leaving out, well, the non- highlights. Outside a reluctant day in february, the only songs here are the staticy noise from the computer and the overpowering sing sang of the fridge. Writing writing, her right middle finger is getting sore
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already, her lower back starts to hurt, writing is not what it used to be, used to be. Writing needs a manual tool, some kind of pen, some kind of utensil, to be scratched over surface. Something archaic, nostalgic, have you ever heard of a nom de keyboard? Nom de clef? What is KEYBOARD in French? Author here, scratches her chin, that is what authors do, there are author gestures and then there are non-author gestures. Author here should make author friends, there should be a writerly circle, something like that, something of that kind. And they should all be former art students, painters, animators, they have to bond over something. A common enemy, maybe, something of that kind, they should meet up in coffee shops, they should exchange notes. Yup, there are online communities, but is that enough enough. Conceptual systems, the sign in starbucks said that, author ponders, now, there is a nice title for a book. CONCEPTUAL SYSTEMS, beats me what that is, but it sounds good and that is all we vie for here. 6600 words, give or take some, give or take some. -----------------------------------------------Watching the big bang theory while typing, she ponders if she is getting agoraphobic. They say, you have to do your typing indoors, there is the romanticism that refers to the rooms of writers, there is a series of writers’ rooms-pics, in the guardian in 2007. She remembers that she mentioned that in this very text, she picked up a magazine in the grocery store in the morning, which had an article called “ novel gazing”, which had photographs of the offices of famous novelists. There are painters whose main subject matter is their own studio, animators tend to make films about animators. And then, there is, of course, the ubiquitous “selfportrait”. Author here notices that she slithered away from her stabs at diagnosing her own agoraphobia to writing about subject matters, somehow her writing is way too off-course, she is so very much committed to producing a certain wordcount each and every day, while watching reruns all day 19
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in her PJs. We have 6700 now, we need 1300 more. she is retitling this text, constantly, constantly. ----------------------------------and …. february 7 it is it is. She makes sure that she goes back and disables the capitalization at the beginning of the sentence, that she retypes the F of February, makes it storch the reader’s consciousness, she tells herself that it is more artsy, that re-fashioning orthographic conventions is good good, that that is how it should be should be. The glitches, the hiccups, that is what will enliven her prose, that is what will set her apart,, that is what should define her otherwise ah so blah writings, her texts will be hiccupped into the pantheon of literary master pieces, somehow, somehow. This will make her literature stand above ordinary grocery lists, it will set her texts apart from tv-remote-control manuals, it will even set her writings apart from the spoken words uttered at two after midnight in the more seedy parts of town, where wannabe-poetry-slam creatures try to evoke a fledgling aura of after-college-malaise. Author looks at her writing, wow, can she spit out a lotta bullshit, how do you do it, Charlie Rose asks, how and how and how. “Well, Charlie, let me tell you, it is not easy, or as Garfield would say, it is a dirty job, but somebody has 2 do it”, author ponders, what happened to all the Garfield books she had, they must be somewhere, somewhere. She is back in the community college, her computer at home did not work, did not did not, she was about to describe a suburban malaise, fuelled by her earlymorning ventures into the awakening safeway on arbutus, but, hey, now she might as well describe this place, the so very goodlooking woman at the other computerstation, who types and types and types. The woman sniffs, has a cold, this library is brimming with people, goodlooking woman sniffs some more, sniffs some more. Describe all these places, all of these places with writing places, that is her subject matter subject matter. Amassing writing places, that is the plot, 20
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must be the plot. Fascinating places that hiccup a not so fascinating existence, dreary words pecked away in computer stations the world over, good looking woman throws her snot into her kleenex, the day marches forward, forward. Author e-mails her queries to agents in new york city, they all e-mail back their rejections, ah , what can you do what can you can you do. You just write, girl, that is all you can do all you can do. Type and type and type and type. You’ll make it after all, throw your green blue black beret into the air, Minneapolis, mary tyler moore moments, the like the like the like. And 7222 words we have here have here. The great non-narrative- THE GREAT NON NARRATIVE, she is rushing back to her computer station, from the back of the library, the woman at the other computer is eating chocolate drops, she has bronze-ish nail polish, ah the library, so may many people. Some more chocolate drops, author here can hear her crunch some crunchy fillings, anyhoo, author ponders, if she should retitle her text once more, great non narrative, ah, not catchy enough, not not not. Just call it TEXT, that would be fine, HEFT is big, this seems to be the time of one-word titles, four letter titles. Ah the ever changing climate of publishing, same as 100 years ago, same as 100 years from now. And she has some more chocolate,. The whiff of chocolate chocolate. ------------------Author rushed to the starbucks near the entrance, rushes back, by so many many people, turns out the woman at the other computer station is not eating chocolate drops, she is having these weird pretzels with chocolate chips therein, author here ponders if her banal, every day observations will make it into the pantheon of,,,, but, hey, she pondered that already already, selfdoubt rules, rules. Come up with a fuckin’ plot already and any narrative will do, and plot and narrative are the same, have the same meaning, well, do they, do they? You just write, you can go
21
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in later and change everything. Enid Blyton wrote 400 books, apparently the leader of north korea wrote 1500 books, how tough can it be how tough how tough. Just sacrifice your life to literature, prolificize you oeuvre, type and type and type. Ah, she is losing it here, one word at a time one word at a time one word at a time. Time. ---------------------------------------------------------------Still sitting in the library, still at the same computer station, still having the same computer station neighbours. The woman to the right, the woman to the left, both very similar to each other, in a appearance, that is. Both still typing, writing their essays, one is typing up her handwritten texts, the other seems to type and research from the internet. Both have long straight hair. Author ponders, does her writing classify as gossip? 7601, 7602. --------------------------------------------she likes this library, one day she will work in one. At this time, she produces content, writes, she can borderline live with the staticness of staying put, having your head leaning over the keyboard, with the constant typing, with the fiddles of nausea that come and go, she can handle the music of the computers, the constant peering of people at their cell phones, she can she can. It should feel good to barf all over the glittering keys, that would enliven this place, yep, liven it up, do it, do it. But, hey, nausea is only there, in the background, dull, dull dull dull. So, how many words do we have here, have here. Not 8000 yet, not yet not yet not yet. She will type unit she reaches 100 000, then and only then, is it time to stop to stop. Others can write textbooks, others can do that do that, non-fiction books, but hers is this, a long 100 000-word-long poem, one that goes on and on, forever, forever. Yep, it has to be said, boy, can she write bullshit bullshit. 22
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-------------------------------------------------------------------------------apparently, she has not much time to write on this february 8. She has to be places, has to run errands, has to wait for the dryer to spin, outside, pouring rain, thus there is not much time for writing and typing. She ponders about the correlation of rain and writing, there is none, is there, but, hey, we have to fill the page, even if it is with nonsense, we have to train the writing chops, which is another incoherent sentence, ah, seems that today nothing really works, at least not in the realm of creativity. There is no writer’s block, there never is, but there is the inability to string eloquent word beads on the string of, hmm, beats me, what string. And w’ere typing here typing here, 7919, so very very near to 8000, 8000. ---------------------------------------------------In the library in the art school, waiting for the lecture, the one that will start in an hour, author here has time to kill, she might as well type some more words, some more words. There is no plot, but she mentioned that already, there are only repetitions, repetitions. A woman in dark green to her right, a woman in black to her left. Author here messed up all of her surroundings, she just left all of her belongings all over the place, which is kind of driving her crazy, she cannot work like this, like this. Everything should be neatly folded, yep, OCD rules, rules. How can you function within a mess, not possible, not, not. ---------------------------------------------------------------------She knows that, technically, she is not allowed to use this place, this place is only for legitimate card holders, enrolled students, faculty, not for poets who just happen to be in the neighbourhood and want to fashion their amazing master pieces, if they do not pay, they are not welcome here, pure and simple, pure and simple. How can one write under these circumstances, how, how? She 23
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should go back to her adobe, and she is not quite sure what an adobe is, to her writing room, which in her case, is the kitchen table. The narrative of the story, not there as of yet, not there as of yet. She should write about art, something critical, something artherstorical. She still ponders if she should enrol in the grad program in nyc, at the sva, who knows, who knows, who knows. She can’t make up her mind, it is way 2 expensive, 2 tough and all. She feels hungry, she should wrap this up wrap this up. And, btw, 8218 it is it is. With btw meaning BY THE WAY, by the way, btw. --------------------------------------------------february 10, ah, she might as well type for one hour straight, she has a meeting at 4, it is now 12:30, there should be ample amounts of time between 1:20 and 4:30, to make it to the meeting, even if the rain starts pouring, even if the Canada Line breaks down. Author here ponders, no one in Vancity refers to the Canada Line as THE SUBWAY, it is either skytrain or ‌, actually it is skytrain for all of the trains. That is how it is, even though it is not technically a skytrain in all places. Author ponders, her observations are so very debatable, she gears her writings towards non-vancouverites, so that she can make up stuff, non-factual claims, this is after all her version of Vancouver, her reality, and it changes anyways once you put it to paper, where does fiction end and where does non-fiction begin, ahe ponders, ponders, ponders. Ah, a rainyish day in the community college, there is a black and white you tube movie on the other computer, in the distance. People talking, lots of them, author ponders, how many books are there in this library, library. There are 3 floors, this is the new library in Langara, she knows that she can look it up somewhere if she wants to know, she can ask the librarians, but she does not want to make a spectacle of herself, she wants to fade into the background, be invisible, be under the radar, radar. That is better for a writer, so it seems so it seems. You can observe better, so it seems, so it 24
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seems. Just wear your beret when you are on Charlie Rose, that is enough enough. For some weird reason, being on Charlie Rose seems to be the epitome of marketability for a writer. Author here has lost it lost it. And we type and type and type. 8547 words and 8550. Ah, words and words and words. Good ones, bad ones, the l;ike and the like and the like. Some save, some spellcheck spellcheck. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------FEBRUARY 16, she has not written for what seems like an eternity. Life gets in the way, that is how it is how it is. She has to make herself sit at the computer, each and every day each and every day. Just to watch yourself typing that is enough enough. To press down buttons, keys, that should do it do it. She should put commas where they belong, she should do this and that and the other. Should rewrite, edit, send it out. She should look up at the light on the ocean factory, she should make more sense, especially to readers. Writing is abut communicating your ideas to others, it is not about long monologues, she is confused, there are as many statements about writing, as there are readers. Outside, Vancouver rain, drizzling down, this keyboard here is so very annoying, she is sitting once more in the library of the art school. Next to her, all these books that no one ever reads, people look at them, look thru them, but, hey, no one reads all of them. We pick, we choose, that s how it is how it is. We read the stuff we wanna read. That is how it is how it is. She has 9000 words give or take some, she might as well reach the 10 000 mark line, she will sell her words. One letter at a time, one word at a time. To the highest bidder. Manuscripts are auctioned all the time, not hers though, not hers. Hers is not the flavour of the week, yep, that must be it must be it. Her writing is superb, it always is, but no publisher will publish it, yep, it is
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all politics, politics. The old “ahead by a century� adage, yep, that must be it must be it. Songs outta Kingston, you would not get the connotations, why should you why should you? Set the commas where they belong, you idiot, you idiot. Author here is hungry, it is half past ten, her words are slightly nonsensical, there is no plot, she throws her hands into the air, she is a non-gifted writer, yeah, yeah, one of those, one of those. The stupor that comes from watching too many shows on tv, that should not be that good for a distinguished, ah, so amazing writer. Even grocery lists are better, better. She saves this as GROCERYLIST, yep, that will be the title, it is as good a title as any, it will be a book that tops the new york times bestseller list, it will be translated into 74 languages, it will be required reading in graduate programs the world over. Young wannabes will write their dissertations about her book, yay yay yay. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------should be february 17. Sitting half-groggy in the art school library, she has to go downtown, to the passport office, instead of sitting here, while not even taking her coat off, sitting here in too warm street clothes, with shawl and, well, at least, she took off the mittens, she just had to print a document out, she should go back to the bus station, walk through the drizzle, nobody needs her literary aspirations flooding the keyboard, there is no need for her writings, she just got an e-mail rejection, that was sent at 4:30 am, from New York, obviously that was the first order of business for that person in his midtown office, to reject author here. He might as well have done it in his pjs, or on the commuter train from new jersey, anyhoo, one more rejection, one more of many, ah so many ah so many. Which means, keep on typing, writing, the like the like. File away at you dowdiest of artforms, which is how one former lit agent describes writing, and he is so right so
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rights. Dowdiest. Author here likes that, goes with having your hair in a bun, living in mothbally clothes, having cats around your feet. Dowdiest, huh. Ah, what is wrong with mothballs, and the dishes that flood all over the sink? What is wrong with the anti-glamour, what what what. She watched dr zhivago late in the night, omar sharif penning songs for lara, in the white winter wonderland of, could be, Siberia, could be anywhere. She was shocked how much the film reflected cold war mentalities of the west, so that is how poets are chosen, not by merit of their work, but by the merit of how much they tag the partyline and any partyline will do. Author here could elaborate, but why why? Time to go downtown, time to take a number in the passport office, time to do this, that, and the other. Time and time and time. The day marches forward, ah, solemny, so solemny. And 9379 we have, we have, we have. --------------------------------------------------------------------she is now in the central library, ah, so many people so many many people. A woman next to her, the whiff of too much perfume, the escalators, up and down, she can see it all from here, people going up and going down, and the elevator can be seen too and the music from the i-pod of the smiley person in green, lindy green. Lindy is not the right word, ah, maybe olive, lighter shade of olive, the unkempt person walking by smells too much, too harsh. Olive green person laughs out loud, yep, that is what happens when you play video games, and author here types and types and types and types. Should go back to the art school, sleepiness is gripping her by the throat, ever so silently silently. Yep, am a poet, and i know it, could be worse, could be playing a video game in an olive sweater and a black and white baseball cap and laugh out and talk to the too blond person next to me. Author here does not make that much sense, not to the reader, not to the reader. Woman next to author leaves, takes her perfume with her, ah, how many words, how many many words. Gotta be home by the time of BIG BANG, you cannot miss 27
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sheldon, not that not that not that. The writer in spring, why not why not why not. Nothing makes that much sense, her words, reluctant, reluctant. 9659 it is it is. ------------------------------------------------February 18. Saturday. Rain outside. a morning, a fast foray into civilization, into the flux, the crux of people, a coffee, a walk thru the supermarket, ballet dancers in pink running around a column, the Saturday dance school, the liquor store in the mall. Then, back to the kitchen table, the roar of the fridge, words reluctant reluctant. The poet in spring, though spring looks more like fall. February is, technically, winter, author should take up a gig as a professional writer, in a deadline-oriented setting, with editors and copywriters, where her writing will start to soar, sail professionally, where sensical treatises will grab the reader by the throat and force him to read, to read. 9789 words, writer here, author here, participated in abna, a breakout novel contest in 5 rounds, where two lucky winners will win a publishing contract, 2 chosen ones, two, two. Penguin will publish their stuff, the world of writing, tightly controlled by publishing houses. That cannot be good, luckily, any hack now can put her stuff online, to be stored forever in obscurity obscurity. Writers better than her have tackled issues like that, she should just keep on amassing words words. Need some more, will have ten thousand, ah, numbers numbers. The fridge roars, the taps on the keys, the rain outside, how do you spell DREARY, DREARY. She should turn on the light, too dark here for writing writing. If her car wasn’t broken down, she would drive to the coffee shop down on arbutus, if her laptop had a longer-lasting battery life, she would write in the coffee shop, where the warmth of the light would glisten up the edges of the squares in her keyboard, where sadness is interrupted by yellow orange neon lamps, maybe there is something to the premise of a disease called SAD, seasonal affective disorder, ah, malaise, ah, melancholia. The drops of the rain hanging plumply from the pitchblack railing 28
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outside, author here, writer here, she taps away at the keys, at the keys.. yay, twenty mote words, twenty more words. what is the difference between an influential literary agent and a noninfluential one, when did publishing houses start to require agents for submission, there are tons of publishers, who will accept unsolicited material, without the interference of an agent, that is how it is, how it is. Waiting game, waiting game, author has her writings at two publishing houses, at this time, so she should just keep on producing more words, more words. Eventually it will be published, yay and yay and yay. 10 020, yay, yay, yay. The musings of a writer, so above a grocery list, so very below a grocery list. At least, grocery lists make sense, to the reader, to the writer. Yay and yay and yay and yay. -----------------------------------------------------------------------she could title this VANCOUVER, a stroll through the local bookstore hit home the fact that this is the time of books with names like NEW YORK, LONDON and the like, there is no book called VANCOUVER, as of yet, that is. Given, that author here lives in vancouver, she might as well title this text VANCOUVER. Yay, GROCERY LIST is out, VANCOUVER is in. -------------------------------------
February 20. the slow Monday morning, the hovering around in a coffee shop, the ten o’clock coffee hour, blue collar workers, white collar workers, starbucks will never be outta business. The writer is back here at the kitchen table, next to the roaring fridge, she looks up at the tilted pan, somehow her sentence is senseless, senseless. The bla of the everyday, the songs of the fridge, the writing that will not garner awards. Not even publishers. Mark Twain self-published, ten thousand self-published writers on amazon, who will know them, once they are cold and 29
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dead. Is posterity what writers want, what painters want, is it fame and fortune, what do they want, what, what. A plumber wants to be remunerated, so does a writer, it is that simple, that simple. If you start your day at a typing machine, on Monday morning, fresh, out of shower, coffee, hair nicely coiffed (whatever that means), you are just logging time in at the office, you are tinkering with words, you are at the border between innovation and execution. Ok, the last glip was inspired by a NEXT reportage on CNN, anyhoo, author here types and types. Ten three oh seven, there might be another part of this writing, the one that got lost in cyberspace, she might retrieve it and paste it in. her writings are ruled by the machine, the machine that stolpers around, hiccupping hiccupping. She looks up at the empty winebottle on the counter, nope, she does not drink, it was applejuice with bubbles therein, this writer lives on coffee and chamomiletea, her extravaganzas are watching too much of BIG BANG, is that way too prosaic for aspiring members of the pantheon of worlditerature, ah, who knows who knows? we have more than 10 000 here, wordcount is what makes or breaks a writer, nothing else nothing else. Fighting the status quo, huh, everyone can scoff at the status quo, the world is awash with rebels and revolutionaries, this writing is en par with a grocery list, aspiring to be a manual for opening a garage door, it is quivering between poetics and functionality, form begets function, ever so slightly ever so slightly. She has the right degree of poetic senselessness, the “open for interpretation� par excellence, par excellence. This stupid software is doing its own thing, her lines are skewed up, the window became narrow for no apparent reason, the author feels like throwing the laptop thru the room, like a guitarist on stage, the machine made me do it, do it. ah, might as well save this, spellcheck this. And 10 547 it is, it is. ---------------------------------------------------30
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in the library downtown, a pretty nice seat here, the woman next to her is working on her treatise, that is nice, that means, nice-smelling lady, nice-smelling scholar, she does not wear glasses, though, she looks at the highlighted parts of her text, ponders, takes her right hand to her chin, scratches her hair, has her head in her hand, author here ponders, somehow her writing is off, off, ah, it always is, always is. The writings of february, her stalkings of twitter accounts of various lit agents, in nyc, she ponders, what will happen, once an agent takes her on, on. And should she even go thru an agent, there are tons of publishers who do not require agents, who just read thru her stuff and then reject her, she has done it all, all, she has sent her stuff to publishers and to agents, it never works, either way, either way. But one day, she will be published, how will that change her life, will she still be able to watch as much BIG BANG, as much SEINFELD. For some weird reason the font gets suddenly bold, ah, these machines do whatever they feel like feel like. The wordcount at 10 000 and something, she types away, types away. Every day is nanoday, she has to type her novels, twenty per year, someone will publish this, should publish this. She has to insert HEAVING BOSOMS, apparently, apparently. Because, if you dare to not do that, you will stay unpublished, stay unlauded. No booktour for you, no soup for you. You will rot in your attic, under the roof, you will die slowly, you will be one more poet that stays nameless, nameless. The starving artist, well, in her case, the obese artist. Slightly obese. There are all these philosophies about the state of the artist, the state of the scientist, who cares and who cares and who cares. All the old paradigms are shifting, and what the heck are paradigms anyways, anyways. We have 10974, not bad, not bad. In november, she had 40 000 by the twentieth of the month, this febrary has a very so very meager output. No deadline, no writing. We are not that self-disciplined, as a species, a s[species. You have to have someone breathing down your neck, we are all workhorses, if there is no whip, there is no writing. So it 31
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seems so it seems so it seems. ---------------------------------------------------------------Yep, a february 21. A day in the rain, in the desolate UBC library, it is reading week after all. Some eager students here, the ones that are serious and studious, the ones that type fast, tomorrow’s and today’s overachievers. The ones that are gripped by their chosen fields, the ones that hunger for logging in long long hours, to the brink of exhaustion. Author here is one of them, the only caveat, the only thing between her and constant typing is her eventual exhaustion, the right middle finger that will act up and refuse to do all the typing, that is what ten finger typing is for, the skill that author here has not yet mastered, not yet, not yet. There are writers who cannot do it, Shakespeare for one, he still made a name for himself himself. A dull loud knall in the back, the woman to her right is typing, fast and fast. It is e-mail, though, she looks seriously at the monitor, this school is filled with serious women who wear scarves around their necks, who wear glasses. Scholars scholars. Author here is no scholar, nope, she is a maker, maker of texts, texts, there for others to be deciphered. That is how it is how it is. She scratches her chin, reluctantly, not a real scratch, just a tap with the back of the left hand, for a spiltsecond, anyhoo, she ponders, where is her place in the pantheon, yep, that pantheon, the one filled up to the brim with literary greats, is she one of the lesser minds, one of the higher minds, a giant, a non-giant, who knows, ah, who knows? She is there with other authors of grocerylists, with fence-manualists, with the ones that punch a hole into a bus-ticket, her writings are too simple, too convoluted, not good enough, way, ah, way too great. Ah, to be a writer, while rain pours down on Vancouver, on the bus from 41st to wesbrook mall, while february is happening, reluctantly, reluctantly. Time to go to 2 pie square, or whatever the name of the best pizzaplace in town is, where a slice is still two and a half, where life stands still, happily, happily. Ah, to be a 32
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2012
scholar, a scholar. ----------------------------------------------------Ah, writer here is uttely bored, still typing away, typing away. The chair is utterly tiresome, the woman next to her is still typing, there is nothing really happening here, nothing, nothing. She surfed the web, random data about random persons, did you know that there is something called quantum computing, she missed a talk about it, would have been interesting, she was in UBC Robson Square, she asked the woman at the front desk, she did not give her the correct info, thus, author here, will forever be in the dark about quantum computing. Wikipedia, of course, gave her ample info, and she now knows the life story of the brilliant prof who spoke on quantum computing, hey, here is a thought, how come they are always men, always, always. Of course, of course, the old boy mentality is much more sneaky and sophisticated these days, that is how it is how it is. Author here writes, types, she is not a number person, thus, what do I care do I care. Mine is the world of words, apparently, apparently. Good words, bad words, anywords. It is next to twelve, time to have pizza, pizza. Time to save this, time to wordcount this, the like, ah, the like, the like, the like. Eleven six one eight, a February with ten thousand words. --------------------------so, there is an open mic on thursday at the wired monk in kits, it starts at seven-thirty and ends at ten, author here has open-miked once, in agro, on Granville island, for seven minutes, to a standing ovation, mainly, because she was the last gig, and everyone was happy to go home, though a woman from Portland and a woman from Washington State really liked her stuff, well, actually, she read a really great part of her writing, was tough, not to like that, apparently, it is imperative to read from your better writings, from the strong stuff, not the weak stuff, not the 33
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nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
fillers, not, not, not. Author ponders, she felt pretty queasy in her stomach, somehow, she does not really want to feel like that again, open mic can just go on without her, why not why not why not. Who needs the exhilaration, or whatever –ation comes with reading in front of a crowd, you know, people can have heart attacks when speaking in public, in front of a crowd, she might as well just practice with the pizza person, hear herself order a pizza, that is public speaking enough, THAT SLICE OVER THERE, and, maybe PLEASE, for better form, that is as much public speaking, as we can muster here, muster here. Let us just type our words into the computer, let it sail thru cyberspace, that is as much engagement with the public that a writer needs, needs, for the advancement of her career, so it seems, so it seems, so it seems. Roughly 12 000 words, not quite not quite not quite. As of yet, yeah yeah and yeah. ----------------------------------------------------------------february 22- sitting in the library, time: 52 minutes after noon, next to her a lady who looks like a writer, who is looking, staring at her monitor, who seems to edit and rewrite the text on the monitor, she has a blue-green wooly sweater, glasses, a pronounced nose, she has grey hair, short, she is very very serious, she is very wrinkled up and very old, but definitely not too old, she is very good at doing her editing thingie, she seems to have the persona of a writer pat down, she looks at the monitor, reads some, then tilts her head and looks down at the keyboard, then looks back at the monitor, leans forward, has her hand resting on the mouse, then she leans her chin on her hand, pensive, author here ponders, should she adopt the persona of this woman, will she be a well-published writer, will she be, will she, will she? If you go through the motions, you will automatically become a writer, that is how it should be should be. Author is annoyed, someone replied to her e-query, the usual, the ubiquitous e-rejection, author ponders, her book is so very very very good, but, hey, it just gets rejected, again and again and again. Maybe, she 34
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
should vie for a nom de plume, that should do the trick do the trick. Samuel Clemens took up the name MARK TWAIN, hey, worked for him, worked 4 him. Author here could do the same, that is what you need to do, if you are vieing for the nobel prize, or maybe you have to go with your own name, ah, who knows who knows who knows. Author is pissed off that she gets rejected again and again, ah, the biases of agents and publishers, for god sakes, publish my book already, it is just as good as the rest of the fluff that sails through the literary landscape, yay, why not why not why not. Ah, to be unpublished, ah to be published, either way, it does not make any difference, any difference. She feels like crying, like taking the keyboard and smashing it on the next person, yay, you should never critique an artist, never, never, never ever. The sensible soul of an artist, no wonder, they all starve in the gutter, the gutter. Too many writers, too little readers. Lots of supply, no demand whatsoever. Ah and ah and ah. But hey, we have 12 300 words here, give some, take some. A february with 12 000 words, not good, any november makes you type 50 000 words, easily, easily. Author should be more prolific, less prolific, her words should be more coherent, less coherent, more of this or less of that. You are no poet no poet, try, as much as you want, try and try and try. The library, she writes, the weird man on the other computer stares at her, for seconds, that is nice, one really likes to be stared at by a potential sociopath, that is how it is, how it is. Upstairs, people reading, down here, the klimper klumper of her typing, her typing. It is one ten, PM, PM, PM. A woman in pink shoes, a grey jacket and a black T-shirt with the white letters saying FINCH on it, she has glasses and looks aloof. The big 3 on the column, yep, this is the third floor, so you know, so you know. Author stoops her typing, for moments, for seconds, her neck starts to hurt, her writing, her writing. Ah, to shoo all these words in line, so that they mush together, so that they sing in unison, ah, to be a writer, a poet, a poet. This is not what she wanted to do with her life, she 35
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
wanted to be an athlete, an explorer, an astronaut. Or something something something. A scientist, something, something, and anything will do, should do. Ah, to be a writer a writer. 12591, 12592. the words the words the words. To sing at the computer, while a class is happening behind her. While the library is doing its thing its thing its thing. In february, or something, and something. -----------------------------------On the telly, “the new adventures of old Christine�, the author tries to fashion her so very amazing words, which is kinda tuf, to listen and watch while writing, writing. 12 639 words, she has to hurry up, she should have more words, more words come february 29. It is a leap year this year, writer here ponders if she can say something philosophical about this fact, something interesting, something anything. Author was waiting for the bus, she went to the Chapters on Granville, she picked up a book called THE FIRST FIFTY PAGES, it was about how to write an interesting, a gripping intro to a novel, author here started thinking about changing and rewriting the opening of her text, something really really really gripping. Whatever that is, whatever that is. --------------------------------------She should take her laptop to the starbucks on arbutus, she will find stuff to describe there, there are cars driving by there and she overused the word THERE. In here, there is not much to describe, except for the ever-changing images on the telly, a KIT KAT ad, a McDonald’s ad. Multigrain Cheerios, a fitness center ad. The usual, the usual. Food ads followed by ads for weightloss-helps. ---------36
the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
february 23- once more in the central library, this time on the fourth floor, the big 4 on the central column, outside part of the ford center for the performing arts or whatever its name is now, it changes constantly to reflect the sponsor de jour. Writer here is not that happy her pitch of a novel did not make it into the first round of the abna, or whatever the name of that competition was, anyhoo, one in five was sacked and she is one of them. Ah, who cares, just gotta go on writing, writing, publishing is overrated, might as well put it into cyberspace, that should be enough enough, who needs recognition, ah, Rumpelstiltskin could live without it, thus, who cares who cares who cares, in the greater scheme of things, in the greater scheme of things. Hmm, come to think of it, i care i care i care. Author here types fast, there is not much time left on this computer, there is always an extra 60 minutes, but you have to be vigilant to tell the machine in time and if you don't, well, then: tuf luck. Author here ponders if she should go to the open mic session at the wired monk on fourth, if she should read, if she should put herself thru that. Reading your writings to total strangers, that cannot be good, not that good. And stop, and spellcheck spellcheck. She just passed the 13 000 line, ah, well, ah well, ah well. -------------------------------so, she has her 60 minutes, it seems, though the little clock-icon is ticking away, going down, to 00, and, hey, starts up at 59:01, ah, technology, magic, the like, the like. Another hour of mindless typing, while a woman walks by, while the library is happening, happening. So much to see, so much to document. The plants and flowers on the shelf in the distance, the writing, the typing. Author feels nauseated, she lightheads around, feeling queasy seems to be her eternal state these days. Is that what happens to writers, if you shove words onto a piece of paper, each
37
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nasrin khosrowshahi
2012
and every day, each and every day. Author here sits up straight, she looks at the blue globe in the distance, commandeers herself to not vomit, not vomit. No time to vomit, not over this nice keyboard, there is space beteen the keys, if she vomits, if she barfs, it will be a total mess, her regurgitated inerts will seep all over the keys,. Will seep into it, and the term INERTS is wrong and she hates writing, she hates typing, ah, writing, the dowdiest of art forms, according to this powerful former literary agent, or something and something. Author here is losing it, she is hungry, she just had a bannana loaf, that is all, she has to have lunch or something/and something. Someone sneezes, someone talks to his monitor. And we're typing and typing and typing. Stop, spellcheck the like the like the like. Eliminate the superfluous letters, the ones that you typed by accident, while your fingers try to peck at the right keys, and missed and missed and missed. 13 363 words, and it is february 23, geessh, you need deadlines here, you definitely need deadlines deadlines. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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the writer
nasrin khosrowshahi
39
2012