sleepy author on monday morning

muse nasrin khosrowshahi

THE ART STUDENT AND THE PLOT WITHOUT ZOMBIES OR THE ART

SCHOOL AND THE PLOT WITH ZOMBIES

- 1 -

By the yellow clad mannequin she rushes, to the applestore, takes a peak @ the new i-

pad, pushes some buttons, slithers on into holt renfrew, hot pink everywhere, finally

outside in the rain, thru Vancouver in October, by Dunsmuir, bikes on the new bike-lane,

finally, at the computer to the very right, in vcc, the learning center, jotting down her

sketches. Next to her a painter, or something, sketching a myriad of slightly differing

upside-down rectangles, with a mechanical pen, very professional, tomorrow’s Milton

Glaser.

The author types and types. This will be her seventh non-novel, half a million words over

the last three years, thirty agents that would not take her on, we are getting somewhere

here, getting it.

Her plot does not have good zombies, not yet, not yet. No blood, not enough, no s-e-x on

the very first page. A book for the g-rated crowd, the pre-geriatric g-rated crowd. The

rock-in-your-chair on the porch, while the sun sets over maine. Or Vermont. New

England it is. A very white crowd, with privilege dripping thru its toes, voting for john

kerry is a must. The draft dodgers who were above dodging the draft. Way above.

The author ponders, zombies are her subject matter, not some Hyannisport set that she

knows outta mags and stuff. Does she care about what constitutes the makers, the shakers

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of the American Century. Why does she even type in English? Something is amiss,

weird, so very strange here. Ah, the zombies, ah the zombies, the art school, the like.

Stick to the theme, stick and stick and stick. An outline would be good, why not, why not.

She saves this under “artstudent zombie #1”

AND SCENE TWO

University of Toronto, he sits in his brown, long , well, dress, aba, he is twenty-three,

third year of engineering. He knows, he should have finished school by now, but he hung

out a tad too long in Poli Sci-classes and Psych 101-classes, the one with a biological

bent. A lot of writing about neurotransmitters, dendrites, axioms, the like, synapses firing,

not enough Freud and Adler and C.G. Jung. Science is always good, quantifiable stuffi-

muffi. He grew up in a typical suburb, his clothes belie that, or cement that. He scrolls

over his Arabic 101 homework, he will show them, islamophobic movers and shakers of

media et.al. He chuckles, he knows that he is not a fighter, he is a geek to the bones,

talking forever is his M.O., changing the system from within is what he does best. He

adjusts his purple-rimmed glasses, that slide down his crooked nose, the nose he broke in

badminton when an equally bookish tennis partner bumped his racket on him in a wanna-

be-Roger-Federer-like swoosh.

AND ON TO SCENE THREE

The so utterly middle-aged animator sits at her desk, trying her hand at writing. She

really has to pen her NEXT GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL at some time, her Walter

Mitty dreams are just plain falling flat. She mumbles to herself, ponders, if she should

still try her hand at painting, renting a studio in downtown San Francisco or not, would it

be too expensive or not. She should skedaddle back to REAL ESTATE, she was pretty

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good at that. She still lives of her allowance, that is what happens if your Taiwanese

parents support their divorced off-spring, who didn’t make it in marriage-land.

AND SCENE FOUR

The former art student is sitting still in VCC, jotting down all her colorful characters,

somehow they are all weird and strange, they all live in the same century though, on the

same planet, the year is 2010, the planet is earth. The author ponders, how do all these

ppl relate to each other and where should the locale be? Tabriz or Shanghai. Amsterdam

or Reykjavic. Nairobi or Kasakhstan, ah, that Borat, she types, types. Ponders, she’d

rather type stuff sans zombies, sans exotic mix, she’d rather pen a love story. Something

tittilating. With heaving bosoms, nonetheless. Heaving, huh, funny, funny. She should

talk to her NYC agent, to her London-agent, her Tokio- agent. But first and foremost, she

should type and type and type. Nano-month is coming near, so very very near. And she

has 718 words already. Ah, not that bad, for a rainy day in Vancouver, here, in the

learning center at VCC, facing the lunch crowd passing by, in the lobby, loud, happy and,

hmm, something else.

AND ANOTHER SCENE

In the art school library: she types pretty fast, while facing the wall, she is surrounded by

4th year students who are all writing their proposals for their grad films, on another note,

the Vancouver INTERNATIONAL film festival is in full swing, the author wonders,

ponders if she should sprinkle her text with negative sarcastic remarks of the like as “ah,

Vancouver grows up, Vancouver, post-olympic this, post-olympic that, Vancouver, a

newer city, a better city”? Is that what she is stooping to, nope, zombies is her subject

matter, zombies of Vancouver. And the art school, well, it just flows into the text,

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because she is sitting here on Granville Island, typing away, her zombie treatise. He lives

in Maryland, the boy with the red soles said to his girl friend, the author ponders how she

could use that in her plot. At this point, her story is not there, yet, no girl with no dragon

tattoo, nothing, nada, zilch, zip, she looks down at her light-purple key chain, she is so

afraid that her story is boring, there are no whistles, no bells, she should barf, all over the

key board, that would hiccup her text, maybe, so very maybe. She tries to remember the

cast of this text, the ones she painted in the beginning, the quasi-muslim from T-dot, the

reluctant WASP in Maine, the over-aged writer in Frisco. Somehow all these figures

vanish from the storyscape, the zombies are still there, they are in the title after all, the art

school is still there, in the title, you know, the writer notices that this story somehow

skedaddled back to being one big fat monstrous selfportrait, seeping and oozing with ego

mania, ego-centric, well, observations. She ponders, what she will say to Fanny Kiefer on

her show, she ponders, what she will say to the nobel prize crowd, in Stockholm, what,

ah, what. There are too many typos in this, she will write it fast, furiously, send it off to

37 NYC-agents at once, you can do that, with a push of the button, with the push of a

button, let the queries sail thru cyber space. She types, types, types.

She has 828 words, somehow she lost some words on the way, she must retrieve them

and paste them in. and save, and spellcheck. Outta here, outta here. The pistachio

financier in the culinary skool awaits. In the rain, in Vancouver, on october fifth, in 2010.

something like that, something like that, and the plot thickens. Reluctantly. Outta here,

outta here, For now, for now.

- - -

SCENE 79 b

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So now she is once more in the library, she feels that she should write about her alter-

persona, a tall woman in a red sweater, from Portland, Oregon, with auburn curly hair

cascading. Or something, or something. Anyhoo, the pistachio financier in the cooking

school was divine, so was the walk by the Granville Island Brewery, her eyes fixated on

the ROBSON STREET BUCHWEIZEN banner. Writers succumb to alcohol, not to

sugar and grease, they drink themselves into stupor, so the legend goes, not that she

cares, not that she cares. She walks thru her old alma mater, not really knowing why, it is

just a way to kill time, until the next rush of writing sets in, there should be another

master piece penned by the end of the month, just in time for nano month. A novel to

start nano-month, for warming up. The writer ponders, she should paint more characters,

forceful ones, subdued ones, artists writers painters, candle stick makers, too. There

should be a plot, a reluctant one, a quivering narrative that does not make it, sans

cliffhangers, one that holpers along, stolpers along. Well, if the plot is thin, we might

always vie for neologisms.

ANOTHER SCENE

A woman in a black and white shirt, sits down, starts typing. There is no plot, though, just

another person who feeds her words to the computer. The writer ponders, her figures and

characters should interact, the storyline should move forward, there has to be a

controversy or something, and then the story resolves, she should have listened in

scriptwriting, instead of doodling on the table, instead of rubbing chewing gum under her

chair, instead of planning her next spit ball attack. She should have done that, should

have acted a tad more mature, she would be in grad school by now. Instead of typing

stories about zombies and art schools, she scratches her right arm, with her ruby red-

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painted fingernails, she ponders, what are zombies anyways? And why are stories about

zombies interesting for the North American literary crowd. And are they? Should one not

write about BIGGER ISSUES, about, well, bigger issues. Her head starts swimming, that

is not good, not that good. And stop , wordcount and spell check, save, too.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE @ 4:37, PM, THAT IS

In VCC, again, again. The writer took the bus on the Granville bridge, walked thru

Yaletown, thru Dunsmuir. She ponders, is this Rick Steven’s Vancouver, is it a meta

narrative full of suspense, is it the typical anti-saga of the struggling artist wrestled down

by demons or something? Someone accused her of writing too many questions, she feels

like barfing all over the keyboard. WELCOME TO THE LEARNING CENTER, in

yellow, on the wall. Her original protagonists were 30 per cent female, 60 per cent male,

which does not really make sense. She should go up to the pastry place, have some of the

remnants of today’s cooking galore. The words sprinkle onto the monitor, and that is it

and that is it.

- - -

The alarm clock ringles, she reaches over, hits the snooze button, gets back to sleep.

Finally, half an hour she rolls out of bed and makes it downstairs. She takes out her

notebook and starts writing, even before coffee, before eggs and bacon. – the writer stops,

her words stall, they are so non-fluid, there is no story, no plot.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

A class in UBC. Creative writing. It is a requirement for her degree. She types two pages,

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a very lukewarm story. She hands it in, reluctantly. She wishes she was a better writer,

but she is not. Outside, the drizzle that comes down and douses the city, the wet mist, so

very Vancitay. Her story does not make sense, not yet. It does not go anywhere.

- - -

Somehow she is once more back in the library of the art school, she is wearing a too thick

sweater, which looks very pretty though, so very pretty, she types away, wondering how

she can smush this ah so very fragmented text together, make it flow in unison, that way

or the other. Her characters are outta wack, unrelated, the plot is non-existent, she

ponders, she will change the title of this text, MUSE, that will be what it is called, no

more zombies, no more, no more. She will glorify all those films that have no ending, all

those songs that break up in the middle, all those stories that fluctuate, that are

incoherent, she will praise the process, the art students, the ones who try and never

succeed, she will laude the novels that are picked apart, literally, the ones that are

shredded or smushed in the recycling bin, all those ideas that never were and never will

be, the failures, those, those.

SCENE SOMETHING

In a walk-up in Reykjavik, a young writer, her laptop, her painted fingernails over the

laptop, a gauloise dangling from her rubyred lips.

SCENE VANCOUVER

The author in the art school hates the incoherence of her texts, she sends them off to

agents, that refuse to take her on, she hates being a writer, she’d rather paint, rather sing,

rather, dance for a dime. Her art career is non-existent, so is her painting career, so is her

writing career. She types oxymoronic texts, bordering on moronic, Indian summer is

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happening on Granville Island, why not, why not? Her words take her into the land of

incoherence, something like that, she feels like barfing, a keyboard full of vomit, that is

an art piece, the muse will love it, and who knows what a muse is anyways. Ppl more

well-read, people slightly smarter that her, they know, they know. Males, maybe, because

females in academia stay no chance. Well, maybe they do, but academia did not work out

for the writer, so maybe everything sucks. Lets throw tomatoes and rotten eggs, why not

why not why not? Why not. She ponders if this would call for an exclamation mark or a

question mark. She should spellcheck or something, and something. She feels like a

pianist, shortly before closing time, feeding her words to the unsuspecting typing

machine, her metaphors are off, they always are, always are. Time to go for tea, or

something, and something.

- - -

In the library again, writing pretty fast, the narrative, the plot, it is non-existent, she

ponders how to justify the non-plot-driven narrative, maybe the term in itself is good

enough, she ponders, ponders, ponders, tries to fragment the text as much as she can, that

is what words are for, language is for, an artistic tool to be molded, like clay, like clay.

Behind the writer, people talk, in hushed tones, the author should leave, leave.

- - -

once more, back in the art school library. this keyboard is slightly off, the writer ponders

how much longer she can fill page after page with complaining about the different

keyboards in the different libraries of the lower mainland. she should put images of all

her characters on a storyboard, sketch out a story, a plot, stories that make sense, better,

so much better than stories that don’t make sense. you cannot just move the words

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around, you should make up scenes, where stuff happens, action, something or anything.

the writer ponders, would be nice to know why this software on this computer refuses to

capitalize the first word of the sentence. a woman in white sits down next to the writer,

the author, there is a scene, a scene just itching to be described. outside the ocean factory,

the author ponders, this is her worst text, her worst novel. there should be love or

something, there is a hiccup instead. and she types, types, types. 2499, 2500 words. she

needs a tad more to make it to 100 000, but, hey, seems doable, doable, feasible. she uses

words borrowed from economics, to give her words more weight, to smush them into the

world of marketable goods, literature as commodity, why not, why not. songs are not just

for the birds, they need consumers, readers, readers, readers.

AND STILL ANOTHER SCENE

a day in august, a KGB wannabe in Calgary, cigarette smoke, alcohol, the like, the like. a

lowly reader moves on to the podium, takes hold of the microphone, starts reading into

the crowd.

the author ponders, knows that this scene has ah so many glitches, cigarette smoke? in

today’s world? and who even knows that KGB is THE literary café in NYC, so the

wordings are way too off. and what does she want to achieve, take the reader into the

world of aspiring artists, why, why? everything seems so futile, like the rumblings of the

printer to her left, like the constant typing of all these essay writers around her. who work

on their degrees. somehow nothing makes sense, the malaise that grips her by the throat

is so very palpable. she types and types and types. she is at page 2707, she should try to

make it to 3000 by the end of the day, why not, why not. she could describe some more

individuals, their jobs etcetera, she could, she should. she should describe plumbers, at

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least they are successful, at least they get compensated. a woman with a very heavy whiff

of parfum sis down near to the author, nausea sets in, slightly, steadily. and she types,

types, types. page 2778, page 2779. her words are non-sensical, they always are, always

are. spellcheck, save, the like, the like.

- - -

a short hiccup of words, some more, some more. she ponders how the query for her text

should sound, the elevator pitch, that one, that one. it is not a travel logue, maybe a

staycation logue. she types, types, she could call this “the alienation of the typist”,

“existential angst of writer”, something, ah, something. her words splatter onto the

keyboard, forcefully, outside sun and ocean factory, 2867 words.

- - -


a snowboarder, she ponders why she wants to describe a snowboarder? this text is so

utterly fragmented, nothing goes with nothing, like a turquoise top with gold lame shoes.

with a green fedora and a black hat. she types, types, the words do not make sense, they

depict her insanity for the world to see. which is just fine, who would be a writer

anyways? a novelist to boot. in today’s world. in a country without readers. and she

types, types, types, soldiering on in lit land, on to word count of 3000. 2967, 2968,

nothing, 2700. she ponders, she always does. her words are meaningless, on this sunny

October day on Granville Island. in 2010, in 2010. we are losing it here, but that is just

fine. she types and types and types. and 3011 it is, the reluctant novel marches forward,

despite the lack of plot, the deafening plot less ness. and she types and types and types.

at the top of page eleven, the whiff of the perfume of the typist next to her is slightly

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sickening, she should stop, ah, stop.

- - -

AND ONCE MORE, ANOTHER SCENE

She had this too cold bread pudding with custard, that still makes her teeth quiver, she is

now in the vcc penning her formidable novel, that has no real cast members, the only

constant is the author, who roams aimlessly all over town, fighting with the muse,

struggling with the words. Must be easier if one has to follow a charted path, to write

without outline or anything, kinda tough, tough. She looks at the monitor, all the different

icons, colourful, she has to go home, 3154 words already, her novel marches forward,

forward. WELCOME TO THE LEARNING CENTER, in yellow on green, hovering

over the computer station, she types and types, and types some more. Woman to right, in

serious black leather jacket, man to left, with green orange mango and a French baret.

She types, types, types. She ponders, how many chapters should her text have, the novel

that is not yet, that somehow evolves organically, the one that will make it, hopefully.

And she types, types.

- - -

NO Food or Open Drink Containers at the Computers. Thank You. All of this is in black

on red, she ponders if the periods should be there, she wishes for a nice plot, a good one,

but, hey, her storyline whimpers along, somehow, somehow. This is not good enough,

but, hey, not too bad either. It is late, she will go home, home.

- - -

- - -

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Once more in the vcc, she jots down her observations, tries to be as succinct as possible,

it is October seventh, today the winner of the literary nobel prize was announced. Hmm.

She types fast, knows that it is not her, but, hey, writing should be fun, shouldn’t it be? It

is not a career, at least not for her. Her words are too half-baked, her oeuvre is too small,

she will not be able to write enough books in her lifetime to shoot for laurels, awards, the

like. And then there is always the snubbing of the snubbed, the, ah, whatever. Trinkets,

huh. She ponders if she wants to give writing her best shot, if, if? She ponders, where

does she stand in literature land, shouldn’t she paint, animate, illustrate, the like, the like.

Self doubt ad nauseum, it goes with October weather, October in Vancouver. Flirting

with nihilism, that should do it, do it. And she types, types. Two pages, two pages. Long

gone are the days when she tried to fashion a plot, with distinct players, she ended up

where she started, portraying her own whereabouts, her surroundings, her thoughts. A

huge, humongous self portrait. In words. First novels are strongly autobiographical,

angsty, she read that somewhere. This is not her first novel, it is her tenth, so it seems, so

it seems. She lost count, all those half-baked manuscripts float somewhere in cyber space,

some of them printed out, some bound, it is all a big mess. Just like her paintings, like her

animations, her drawings. Artists should be organized, organized. And they should be

booze-hounds. And, the obvious, they should all be male. If not, they will not make it, ah,

excuses, cop outs, that is the tide we ride on here. And why the royal we, and why so

many questions, why despair, despair, on an October morning in Vancouver.

She types away, types away. One more page and her work for today is done. Her day

awaits, all her other stuff, writing should be over in a jiffy. Writing is just a chore, like

brushing your teeth. She should send this out, she will send this out. To be published, to

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be shared with the world. With all 7 billion inhabitants of this planet. This better be good,

better be good. Better be expressive, but not too expressive. A tad meek, a tad non-meek.

That is how writers do it, do it. There should be violence, a tad sex, love, the like.

Illustrations of reality, or something/and something. Maybe she should take a writing

class, but she has problems with authority. And if the authority is too good-looking,

Greek god like, that will do her in. she types, types. Serious it should be, not too comical.

This is a serious world, and writing is a serious biz. A very underpaid biz. In her case, a

non-paid gig. Like a hobby. She could do embroidery, something, something, she types,

fast, ponders, ponders. It is near ten, upstairs the pastries should accumulate. Given, that

vcc courses start at nine, the desserts should not be in yet. How long does a crème brule

take to set? She types, types. Should staccato this with A SCENE, number the scenes,

have some action, action, a plot, something. VIFF is halfway thru, films have plots, they

are not just accumulations of different scenes. She hates writing, sucks at writing,

desolate, destitute, she is the poet who can’t, can’t. the unpublished one, and

unpublication equals : YOUR WORK SUCKS. And publication equals YOUR WORK IS

GREAT. So it seems, so it seems so it seems.

Erudite words elude her, she ponders if that sentence makes any sense. That is what she

does these days, takes the Canada line as if she comes to work, feeds her words to the

machine, heads home for the rest of her day, these are her days, her days. Post art school,

she wishes she was a student again. Ah, to read Xeroxed syllabi, again and again and

again. Now she has to write her own stuff, now she is utterly confused, now she finished

two pages and now she is outta here. For now, for NOW.

- - -

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She is sitting in langara and typing. She wants to finish this text as soon as possible.

Another manuscript. Writing as obsession, there are better obsessions, worse obsessions.

Writing as vice. She knows she has to be in other places, meet her commitments, slither

into appointments. She is way too sleepy, though, the only thing worth pursuing seems to

be writing. The library is bustling, hustling. The author makes up words as she goes. She

could make up a story, full of suspense, mystery, love, lust. That seems what sells these

days, not just observations. Unless you are sarah palin. Ah, what has this world come to?

Poets don’t make it, random writers, she types types, awaits the perfect formulation of

words, the one perfect sentence, the one that never comes. So she just types, types, types

anyways. One day she will nail it nail it. That day is not today, not tomorrow, maybe

never. The one sentence, the one quip that holds true, true. And she types, and she types.

Had tuna for lunch, not that that is what should be included in her greatest novel, the

greatest novel ever. She types, she types. Slithers beside the 4213 word count. Nano

month is so near, she hasn’t registered yet. Might never register, she still has to type out

last year’s nanomonth treatise. People walk down the grey steps in the langara library, the

author wishes she had a camera. How can she possibly document what she sees with

words? And she types, types.

SCENE TWENTY

She staccatos her text with random scenes, at this point a desolate place somewhere near

a harbor, at five in the morning, the night slowly shifting into day, it looks like a scene

outta MY FAIR LADY, purple, black, the day awaits, but is not there yet, and the night

seems to fade away. Everything is purple, red, with hinges of black and turquoise.

SCENE TWENTY-ONE

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Back to reality. Back to 2010, back to the typer in front of the computer. The one, that

nears the 5000 word mark, slowly, steadily.

- - -

SCENE TWENTY-THREE

A poet in a room under the attic, whooshing thru his hair with his hands, he has no talent

whatsoever. The New Yorker sent him, ah, so many rejection letters, emails, the like. He

loves rejection land, has a romantic existence as a bus-boy. That’s why he went to

Brown. Or Princeton. Or MIT. Let’s make it MIT, because it underscores the inability of

becoming a man of letters. A poet, a poet. The author ponders, is her prose too

convoluted, too confusing? Well, good. That should make for good and artsy prose. It

should, it should, it would. Why write straightforward stuff, when you can throw words at

the moniotor at random and hope that they stick. The author is missing her appointment,

but writing takes precedence, she is like a gambler who cannot wean herself from the

slotmachine, from the horsetrack,. Words seem to be her crack-cocaine here, she misses

all her appointments, it’s the end of the world as we know it, and she types, types, types.

4537 words, 4537 words. She will have a donut or something once she is finished with

5000 words, some sugar, some grease, some vodka, some beer. And she types, types,

purple clad lady in black talks, author knows she is typing rubbish, purple is not black,

her words are nonsensical, and happily so, happily so. One day she will be a great writer,

at this point though she sucks. And we have 4610, she made a mistake she had made a

mistake with the wordcount, but, hey, she types, types, types. Nothing makes sense, nada,

zilch, her artistic career is non-existent, she should have become a plumber. Married rich.

The like, the like.

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AND ON TO SCENE ONE HUNDRED

A jungle, a rainforest, toucans chirping. The author ponders, do toucans chirp? Anyhoo,

there are all these trees that are big, she ponders if her mis-en-scene is slightly off, if she

should do research, instead of heaping random words onto the screen. Does she want to

recreate reality or does she want to create a new reality? Should she write sci-fi or

romance, seems easier than what she does. She types, types, in between genres. Mixed-

genre, she likes that term. It is so ambiguous, she types, types, types. This is a novel,

dammit, any text that is 100 000 words long is a novel in her book. She types and types

and types. Fast, obsessed, hunted, haunted.

- - -

Life is dull, she hates her writing, the pictures she paints, the terms she uses. Her words

will never make it never make it. They are, ah, so bad, bad. She should be a musician, a

singer. Anything but writing. No writing chops here, none, none. And we have 4827

words, 5000 is so near, so near. Words are so conspicuous, you use the wrong ones just to

make a grand gesture. You use meaningless words just because the rhythm of the

sentence calls for it. And nothing makes sense and nothing makes sense. 4870 words,

4873. One day she will be a great writer, one day, one day. She said that already, she is

good at repetitions, she types and types and types. Ponders if she can still make her 4

o’clock appointment, probably not, probably not. She hates to be late, and if she rushes

home now, she will only be way too late. She might as well keep on sitting here and feed

her words to the computer. 4 9 4 9 words, so very, very near to 5000. And she types,

types, types. The artist as a young, whatever, the typist that can’t, her words are

nonsensical, waiving to insanity, 4 9 7 9, the goal is so near, near. 5000, I can see thee

16


from here, 4 9 9 6 and … 5000. We’re outta here, outta here.

- - -

It is a tad later, still here in the library, a blue piece of paper on the table, black letters on

it, a drawing, it is a manual, PRINTING IN THE LIBRARY. The afternoon marches

forward, she missed the rehearsal, which is just fine, she types, types. It is too late, she

will never make it. She looks up at the sign that says RESEARCH COMPUTERS, the

library is so very busy, study groups everywhere, she really likes this library with its new

open floor plan. Seems to be the way that libraries are built these days, anyhoo, she types,

types. She should leave this place, has nothing to say, nothing worth writing about. Her

shoulder cramps up, she penned a lot of pages today, not that she really knows, how

many, how many. The red EXIT sign, more ppl walking up the stairs, she looks up at the

ceiling, wishes for a better plot, this is how writer’s block feels like.

- - -

STILL A TAD LATER

She stares at the monitor, is pissed off that her text does not flow, the non-story, non-

story. A text that stalls, a text, that refuses to go, go.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

The author automatically types in the ANOTHER SCENE wordings, thus she keeps the

illusion alive that her text is a logically constructed story, something worth making a

movie out, something adaptable to the big screen, something where action is, where

individuals interact, something thought thru, thought thru. Nope, this is not just an

ungifted writer that rolls outta bed and takes the Canada line downtown, eats something

17


from the dessert place in vcc, on the third floor, where food happens, where all the

concoctions by the various cooking programs are there for the grab, and then puts herself

plompingly in front of one of the computers and starts typing, typing away. Nope, these

words are premeditated, part of an outline that is reworked and reworked ad nauseum,

this is not a plot that is made up on the fly, one that might or might not flow, one that is

quintessentially hit and miss. Her words, her words. Here in ANOTHER SCENE, while

the learning center happens all around her, while she is slightly scared with butterflies in

her tummy, that someone will throw her out of this place what with not being a student,

nor staff, she makes sure that she holds herself straight, looking entitled comes easy when

you’re old. Age does that to you. Along with wrinkles and turkey neck, liver spots, and

she types, types, types. Ah, and a bad knee, while we are at listing all the ailments of a

fifty-five year old existence, somewhere here on this planet, and, as mentioned before,

she types, she types. She will end up like Jack Kerouac, who had all his manuscripts in

his backpack, lodging them all over town, so the legend goes, a myth, myth. And she

types and she types. Spellcheck would be fine, saving this, editing this. A Friday in

October, pre- Canadian thanxgiving. Pumpkin and turkeys in the air, whiffs of brussel

sprouts forgotten, cranberries, cranberries. She types, types, fragmented sentences, word

count 5 5 4 3. And she types and she types. Some more, some more, some more.

- - -

She watches the don’t get caught in a bad hotel outta the corner of her eyes, ah,

technology, she can make a quarter of the monitor filled with the film, she can listen in to

the music, she can type at the same time, all by using the same machine, she ponders if

this makes for better writing or for super fragmented writing, anyhoo, the words stolper

18


forward, 5 6 2 9, 5 6 3 3. She cheats, writes each number by itself, that counts for one

word. She ponders, why word count is this important, do publishers say, well, we are

going to print this many words per year, that will cost this much ink, this much paper. Ah

numbers, numbers. She types and types and types. Feels, well, nothing, she watches her

fingers pump at the square keys, she stares into space, tries to make up a story, an

interesting one. A grocery list is not interesting literature, a manual about how to

assemble a cabinet from ikea, not great literature. Nothing to win a nobel prize with.

Though both are Swedish, the ikea manual and the nobel prize. She ponders if her

reasoning is off, maybe, maybe not. All that counts, is the word count, the almighty word

count. 5 7 7 5, 5 7 7 7. She will make it to 8000 by the end of the day, she should

sprinkle something of the heaving bosom kind in here, what exactly are heaving bosoms,

do they heave at the same time, where comes the word heaving from, does it even exist, it

sounds very unappetizing, she types, types, types. 5 8 3 7, 5 8 4 1. A day in October, in

2010, the math/science tutor sign is still in place, so is the English tutor sign, she barely

remembers that this story was supposed to be about zombies and art school, somehow

that did not work out what with too short attention span of the writer, the narrative did its

own thing and glid off the charted path, describing the troubles and tribulations of the

writer herself. Self portrait, ah, self portrait. A tad less ah-ing and ooh-ing might benefit

the text, she types, types, types. While murmuring to herself, which is just fine the person

next to her is doing the same thing, he has a book and spells out each word and then

compares it with the writing on the monitor in front of him, ppl talk behind her, someone

makes a lot of noise with rulers and metal and paper, ah, the learning center, women walk

by her in ballerina shoes and opaque tights, she is past 600 0, 6003, ah. Enough 4 today,

19


enough, enough.

- - -

And now she is back in the cold room on the green couch, watching KING OF QUEENS

and trying to pen da perrfekt novel. She is outta ideas, but that happens 2 US WRITAS.

She definitely is not at her most eloquentest, the syntax is off, the words are non-existent,

sitcom-laughtracks have the propensity to wipe out deep thoughts and beautiful style. It

doesn’t help that the laptop has to be secured with a pillow, so not to slide down, she has

to put her wrists firmly on the laptop, so that it rests secure. And, of course, she has to

watch a paint ball fight in the catskills, TV is so fascinating and golden girls will be on

later. This is what her novelwriting has stooped to, maybe because she has a nagging bias

towards fiction, she prefers non-fiction and she has enough of mindless hammering away

at the keys, her story is not good not good. 6 1 7 7 words. She should take her laptop with

her, on the bus, all over town, start typing and typing and typing, let the different locales

of the city flow into the text, why not why not why not.

- - -

Outside, the afternoon slides slowly into evening, red and orange on the trees, the lowly

author tries to come up with a good yarn, full of cliffhangers and deep thoughts, full of

wisdom and the like, why not, ah, why not. And if nothing else woks, melodrama will

save the book. She types, she types, she types.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE, ANOTHER SCENE

A day in reykjavic, the author ponders, if she really has what it takes to describe

20


reykjavik given that she has never been there. She once knew a lady who had lived there

and she met someone whose family had emigrated from Iceland. She listened to an artist

talk from a bearded guy from Iceland, he looked like a reluctant viking, which cannot be

said for BJORK. The author ponders, why does she write slightly nonsensical stuff,

golden girls will be on, after the commercials. She has 6 3 7 3 words. Oh well, ah well.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

He is sitting in his living room in Vermont. His weathered face somehow belies his 63

years, which is kinda weird when you have a lot of wrinkles and snow-white hair, it is

more his demeanor that is boyish. Anyhoo, he is sitting at his computer, on the second

floor, it is his sabbatical, which kind of bores him to death, he likes the structure that

school provides. Publish or perish, whatever. He ponders if contemporary lit was a good

choice, it sure provided him with a nice living, but somehow he would have preferred to

go into science. He merely slithered into literature, went into the family business, both his

parents were English teachers. He scratches his grey and red sweater, the woolen one,

that is coming off at the seams, he types, types. He is working on this thick tomb about

Samuel Beckett, not that he is that fascinated by Godot et.al., he just knows that it will

sell well, MIT-press really loved his proposal, he cannot go wrong, whatever bullshit

he’ll write will fly, based on his distinguished career, his age and his propensity to sound

utterly intelligent, even when he has no clue what is going on. Sometimes it is good to be

a WASP. He doesn’t know it any other way.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

21


His Brooklyn accent is the first thing you notice, he lived in New York all his 59 years.

He makes a very good living as a plumber.

ANOTHER SCENE

The author is sitting at her laptop, a rainy day in Vancitay, she tries to describe ppl. That

are not like her, other gender, other nationality, it does not work very well, she just draws

caricatures, stereotypes, she cannot describe dimensionality, layers, she cannot put herself

in other people’s heads, it is not possible. The author ponders, maybe she should stick to

non-fiction, describe concrete stuff, things she can see, her inventing of fictional personae

just is impossible, she can describe in detail a place where she is actually in, but to

conjure up fictional places, not her cuppa tea, not, not. Maybe she should leave writing

to, well, writers, the ones who have the right stuff, she should skedaddle back to painting

and animation, visual stuff, stuff. At least on a piece of canvas she can do whatever she

feels like, no gallerist can make her repaint a painting, whereas editors can command her

around however they feel. She types, types, types. Her writing career is so non-existent,

she tends to inform agents and publishers alike that she will not change even an

apostrophe, somehow this kind of attitude brands her as a troublemaker from the get-go.

Hmmm.

The day moves forward, slowly, rain in October, rain in vancouver, always, always rain,

the wet, ah, so wet city. Upstairs the washer rumples away, she types and types and types.

Time to walk the dog, or something, and something. Not that she owns a dog, she just

tries to reinvent a new persona for herself. Probably that is what fiction writers tend to do,

the ones with published novels, not the ones like her, whose stuff no one reads, the

successful ones, not that it really matters, matters. And she types, types, types her days

22


away. All through 2010. The washer stopped, for now, for now. 6 9 4 2 words. 6947. And

stop, and STOP. 6955, ah, a really round number, how nice, how nice.

- - -

On tv, two and a half men. The words come so very reluctant, it is kinda difficult to write

something while listening in to laughtracks. One cannot really fashion a bunch of words

into something philosophical while the telly moves from advertisements to sitcom and

back, the flimmering, ever changing images have their own life, she ponders if she should

write something anti-media, pro-media, whatever. Whatever does not seem like a good

choice of words, whatever. The antagonist could be the remote control, sitting firmly near

the laptop, outside green, the day motions slowly over into evening. 7062 words. 23

pages, the story motions forward, reluctantly. She should have gone downtown, moved

around the city, trying to come up with an interesting story. Something, something.

Writer’s block, ah, writer’s block. She could walk by the beach, think about a story that

has something to do with nature, birds, sand, the like. At this time, the only thing that

informs her writing practice, is this constant laughtracking on the idiotbox. That is not

how great words are made, she looks at the Kleenex box on the table, at the brown

paperbasket with the white lace around it, she really prefers to write stuff about inanimate

objects, something philosophical, she types, types. 7177 words, she ponders if she can

pass 8000 by the end of the day. She could go back to her ANOTHER SCENE modus,

describe something far away, interesting scenes, and the meaning of INTERESTING is

so very debatable. She longs for those days when she churned out very premeditated,

paint by numberish treatises about impressionism and the like, so very predictable

discourses, she types, types, types.

23


- - -

7246 words, another one of TWO AND A HALF MEN episodes. Writer’s block, so

palpable, like always. 6:47, in the evening, she heaps on all these words until she reaches

8000. Nanomonth requires a minimum of 50 000 words, it is not November yet, but she

seems to be right on her way.

- - -

She ponders, she wants to put 700 words in, the story is non-existent, but that is fine, just

fine. All the meta narratives have been told already, what does she really have to add?

Grocery lists, to-do-lists, the like, the like. She looks up at the books in the bookshelf,

ponders what she should write about that, somehow the funny stuff on the tv-screen

interferes with her writing. 7 3 7 1, 630 more to go. A pizza commercial on TV, now a

flooring commercial. What exactly is FLOORING? And she types, types. Against the

boredom, the quietness that is there, even though the sounds and sights of the TV are

incessant. Now “the Cleveland Show”, animation. And she types, types, types.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

A grocery store, the IGA on the corner of 41st and Dunbar, an early morning, in spring.

An elderly woman with a walker, - the author stops, pauses her writing, knows that she

cannot really weave a story out of a so very redundant scene. There is no mystery, no

fascinating stuff, groceries are bought and put in a shopping cart, the cashier in her dark

green shirt rings in the bill. The author ponders, maybe she can make a story out of the

flowers near the entrance door, somehow she knows that there is no story there. But she

types away, anyways, 7 5 3 4 words, her writing stalls, stalls.

24


Outside the night has set in, she watches the icons on her monitor, watches the animation

on the telly, types, types. Now, another image on the idiot box, she stares at the brown

paper basket, a criminal drama on TV, fast talking detectives, not exactly an everyday

occurrence. She ponders why people are so fascinated with all these scenes full of blood

and violence, she feels nauseated, would really prefer to watch something more peaceful,

she takes her laptop and starts writing at the kitchen table. She can complain some more

about writer’s block, somehow a story will start, will construct itself, if you keep on

writing, typing, a story, a narrative should crystallize, or not, or not. This is so insane, the

pushing down of the keys of the keyboard, when there is nothing to say, nothing to be

described, every poem, every essay has to have a theme, a thesis , an antithesis, her words

are just splatters in the air, like an abstract painting, no real silhouettes, abstract writing,

something like that, something of that kind. There are rules for writing, she would learn

them if she enrolled in an MFA program for creative writing, but somehow she thinks

that she can manage to learn the rules of good writing just by doing, by writing and

writing and writing. The day moves forward, slowly, the words heap onto the keyboard,

230 words is all she needs, all she needs. She looks up at the clock that flickers the time,

in green, she types and types and types. Her shoulder starts to cramp up, it is inevitable,

writing does that to you, does that to you. And she types, types, 7 8 2 0 words, only 200

more, short utterings, mutterings, nothing special, a grocery list has more content, more,

more. She could write love poems, but she knows she is no love poem writer, she prefers

to leave the personal out of her writing, she likes to hold her writing near to math and

science, if that makes sense, makes sense. Probably not. She pushed some button, the

screen suddenly became so small, she is still flabbergasted by what the software does, it

25


is so temperamental, she types, types. The tea maker boils, makes its funny noises, she

ponders if she wants to describe domesticity, not really, not really. The clock with the

green numbers flickers away, she is approaching 8000, at least, she wrote some more

words, she can always go back and edit this, put in high tones, low tones, exaggerate

stuff, tone it down, like a painter or a filmmaker in the editing studio, anyhoo, she types,

types, types. Molds the words, wishes for the best. Language like clay, like clay. 7 999,

8000, she made a mistake, the little blue number is way too small, now we are at 8014,

outta here, outta here. Save, spellcheck, and nothing more to say. For now, for now.

- - -

Another day in the tv-room, she watches tv while trying to pen her new text. She will

classify it as a novel, because hey, if you think it is a novel, we think it is a novel, so the

founder of nano month says. The author likes that definition, any text of a certain length

can be called a novel, something like that, something like that. The author types away,

outside rain, overcast, maybe more overcast than rain. A typical vancouver day, vancity

in October. On tv one ad after the next, in between wolf blitzer, it is somewhere in

midafternoon. She should make her way to starbucks, a coffee shop crowd is always

conducive to writing, ppl come, ppl leave, doors open, the cappuccino machine, she has a

scene just waiting to be described. Whereas here there is nothing happening, her only

entertainment is her constant typing, typing. 8183 words, she ponders iof she can really

pull it off to write 100 000 words of describing her constant struggle with the words, the

language, the word count. Somehow she subscribes to the notion that quantity begets

quality, if you manage to write 100 000 words, they will be good, by virtue of the sheer

number of words, at least that is what she hopes for, that is what she is shooting for here.

26


At one time she will enroll in a program that teaches her how to construct a certain

quality of work, she has to stop her writing to answer the phone, which is always a drag,

and stop, and spellcheck. 8299, 8300.

- - -

On a Tuesday morning in vancity, she stops, it is actually 12:36, early afternoon or

something, she types, types. Upstairs, washer and dryer, outside green, the sky white, all

those clouds, she ponders, ponders. She did a reading, to friends, they made fun of her

writing, and this is when you have to either make new friends or not to try to impress

your friends, they know you, they will never be impressed. You have to find new

markets, keep sending these texts out, find agents, publishers, they are out there,

somewhere. Marketing is where it’s at, improving your craft, that’s where it’s at, the

usual, the usual. Writing interesting stuff, that’s where it’s at. She ponders, she had a

ricotta lemon muffin for lunch, with peppermint tea, somehow this does not seem like the

most interesting fact, the miners in the Chilean mine, the trapped ones, they will be

rescued on Wednesday, now that is news. Not some very regular, predictable life, but,

hey, if you are a good, an utterly gifted orator/narrator, then and only then can you make

the everyday sparkle, make it sing, make it halt the breath of the reader, the listener, only

then can you mesmerize the viewer. Philosophical waxing about what constitutes art with

merit, she can do that, can, can. How many words are there in the English language, will

she be able to make them shine, by arranging and rearranging them? She puts time in, at

her laptop, each and every day, somehow they will form nice enough sentences,

meaningful insights, the like, the like. Stories not told yet, stories waiting to be told,

words so near to science, to math, not that she is good with numbers, she just is

27


fascinated by the abstract logic, that cannot be mimicked with words alone. The rules of

the language, the rules of the numbers. She took a GRE- prep course, in june and july,

twice a week at six on the corner of broadway and Granville. It was a fun group, but the

sad truth was that ppl were either good with numbers or good with words. One of her

classmates stated it eloquently, I feel sorry for the math persons who have to do the

verbal stuff, and feel equally sorry for the math ppl who have to do the verbal stuff. In

that little group there were definately clear divisions between math ppl and verbal ppl.

The author ponders, nature or nurture, but, hey, you can debate stuff like that ad

nauseum. And she types, types. At this time she tries to conquer the world of words, but,

hey, if that doesn’t work out, we can always wait tables, or something/ and something.

You have to keep on moving, that seems to be the slogan these days. Retire and expire,

who knows, who knows, who knows. She will stand in the middle of 41st. stop traffic, sell

her words, twenty bucks per sheet. That is how newspapers started, anyhoo, she types,

types, she should take a course on media writing, she does not really feel like that, the

washer stopped with a click, the dryer motions and rumples forward. These are her days,

humming to herself while feeding her substandard words to the machine, she should

venture out, find something worth writing about, citizen journalism about the everyday, a

city happening, slowly, steadily, anyhoo, she types. Types. Her boring passages have to

appear on the monitor, they should sail thru cyberspace, all over the world, all over the

world. And she types. Types. Ponders if she should adopt a different persona, older,

younger, from another time, in the future, in the past, another gender, another language.

How about Italian, arrividerci, the like. 8 9 25 words, finishing the end here, aren’t we?

painting with words, this is what art school taught her, painting with words. While paint

28


tubes dry out, while canvasses rot away, she types, types, types. 8 9 62, how nice, how

nice. The dryer makes funny noses, clickers, clackers, she should find a nice laundromat,

she could do it all in one whoosh, she should let her stuff dry outside, not that feasible

what with rain and October weather. The text marches forward, nine oh ten, hooray, how

nice. And stop and spellcheck, today seems not her day, no eloquent super fancy writing,

only blah and blah and blah. The everyday of a writer, writing against boredom, against

uninspiredness, against the absence of the muse. And she types, types, anyways,

anyways.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

The former art student sits, well, in the art school, it is Wednesday, it is October 13,

2010, it is happening on Granville island. It is sometime in the afternoon, she tries to feed

her words to the computer, painting is not her thing anymore, animation is not her thing

anymore, writing is, these days, these days. Not that writing really goes anywhere, if

publishing is what you vie for, and everywhere are all those complaints that publishing is

in flux, it will be reinvented, online books will eliminate paper books, all kinds of

apocalyptic talk, but apparently, if herstory has taught us anything, apocalyptic talk has

been with our species since day one, it is only fuelled by our own mortality, that is why

doomsday saying, conpiracy theory mumbo-jumbo is hot, hot. She types, types, knows

that her writing will get better, if that is even possible, she is happy with her writing, even

if no one else is. Eventually she will get her nyc agent, if that is what will further her

writing career, and it seems like that, seems like that. She ponders, should it be a nyc

29


agent, should it be a Toronto agent, a London agent, a Sydney/Melbourne/christchurch

agent, a shanghai agent? Do they have to live in English-speaking locales, how does this

work, how, how? She ponders, ponders, her words make it onto the page, two pages will

be enough, she will go for another walk to the public market, she types, she types. She

types some more, more.


At the end of her academic career, she will retire next year, live the high life, she has

been in a school environment since age five. It is time to stop, smell the roses, learn how

the other half lives, all those ppl who live in the real world, not in ivory towers. Hers has

been either teaching or/and studying, as has been her parents life before, teaching is the

family biz. Could have been real estate, could have been farming. Could have been

running a restaurant, could have been the mafia. Standing in front of ppl for a fee has

been her family business, hurling words into space, to an audience, bowing at the end of

the performance, that is how she made her living. She has no nurturing bone in her body,

it is funny how everyone thinks that she knows what she is doing, must be her glasses and

her grey hair in a bun.

AND BACK TO THE WRITER

The author typing away, pretty fast, she wants to finish this, then go to the Belgian waffle

place on second, she wants to have a waffle and a peppermint tea, this is how she lives

her life, some words to the computer, some eating, she will gain a lot of weight, maybe

that this kinda lifestyle is so very bad, so very very bad.

And she types and types and types.

9555 words, she is marching forward to ten thousand, to ten thousand. Maybe she should

30


go for a trip to Toronto, to nyc, something like that, something like that.

She types, types, types.

She writes, writes, writes.

Her days away, her days, days away.

- - -

I SIT HERE AND MOPE

So, finally she found the perfect title for this her treatise, if this was a dissertation, she

would call it that, no more ZOMBIEMUSE, she does not even have to write a good query

letter, the title says it all, Kafkaesque musings extraordinaire, that is what this text is

about, that, that. There is a market for this, existentialistic texts, nihilistic texts, black and

white films, it is definitely better than the quasi-religious texts that have swept the world

for the last ten years, thirty years. She types, types, she suddenly had this eureka moment

in the caf, rushed back to the library to change the title in her last sribd doc- the caveat

being that there will be a next eureka moment, and she will change the title again, that is

how she writes, that is how she writes. Hopefully this time she will grab a title and run

with it, who needs another text about MUSE, sounds like a film with Sharon Stone,

except that it lacks the THE, I sit here and mope is so much more what this is all about, it

is 300 pages in a nutshell, it is her genre, nihilism in 2010. She types, types, types.

Ventured thru an exhibition in the concourse gallery, called GO EAST, lots of

architectural models, 30 of them, famous ones, stuff designed by Herzog and Meuron,

OMA, SANAA, Alsop, the like, the writer is not even sure if she spells the architectural

firms correctly, she knows most of the examples, she read about them. Wrote about them,

31


all thru her I LOVE ARCHITECTURE phase, she types, types, types. At this point she

prefers to pen stuff, amass words, coherently and incoherently, fragmented sentences that

dance thru space, thru space. She sits here with some hate for her alma mater, more hate

than love, her piece of paper did not really work out 4 her, she became a writer, and a

shitty one at that. And typing, and typing. Moving forward, or something/ and something.

9947; 53 more, and we’ll be there. She looks at her tea cup, she knows she should not

have tea next to the keyboard, but she tries to somehow not to spill it and hold a

conversation, that must not be that good for coherence, but definitely good for

fragmentation, fragmented texts rock, rock. Nihilistic fragmented texts, you could call it

experimental, but experimental seems to have sailed its course, now it is more like

innovative, that seems to be the buzz word of the day, and she types, types, nothing but

bullshit, nothing but bullshit. Self doubting dribble, ahh, arrghh, it rocks, she is losing it

here, in the art school library, in October, in 2010. Ten. And we are @ 10 066. Not bad,

not that that bad.

- - -

she is once more in the art school library, she sits at one of the computers that face the

wall, which is not that good, apparently. She makes random value judgments that have no

merit whatsoever. She had a Belgian waffle in the Belgian waffle place on second, she

walked by false creek, a boy and a girl next to her, talking in a thick quebecois accent,

she ponders, she might have misspelled quebecois, anyhoo, she types, types. 10 156

words, that is nice, if she types 40 000 more, it will be a full-fledged novel, one ready to

be emailed to various publishers, hooray, hooray. The author ponders, she does not feel

like going on booktours, what should one wear, what should one say, how should one

32


combat flightfear, how, hmm, why and where. It is that time of day, her syntax is slightly

off, woman next to her makes funny noises and eats cucumber, author type, types, tries to

block out the noises, which is kind of tough, tough. She types, types, her text marches

forward, which is just fine, fine. And spellcheck, the like, the like.

- - -

once more in the vcc learning center, trying to type as many words as possible, fast, fast,

fast. She had made up a new title for this text, forgot it already, this cannot be good, not

that good. She has to type out all the ANOTHER SCENES of this text, put them on the

living room floor, mix them up, change the chronological flow of the 2 pages increments,

she could fashion a totally new narrative, something like that, something like that. Her

text does not have a clear storyline anyways, it is just a reflection on writing, a constant

whining about writing, about not being able to do visual art, it is just a reflection on the

creative process. She types, types, that she knows, she puts in two pages, each and every

day, she will stop, once she reached 100 000 words, that is the plan, that is the master

plan. She will email it to thirty agents at once, she will, will. She will publish this, she

will, will. She reminds herself that she did one detour after the next in her writing, her

subject matter fluctuates, with the time of the day (this is when the computer froze,

froze.)

and on to another day, sitting in the art school, finding oneselve, finding oneselve.

Okeedok, that doesn’t really make sense, which is not good if you are a writer. Words

should have meanings, they should be clear and concise. Like images, like films, like

pics. Then again, most films make you chat up your neighbor in the movie theater, what

happened, who is that, who shot whom? The author ponders, soaps are the most toughest

33


to decipher, to take track of who slept with whom, that takes a lot of presence of thought.

Sitcoms are easier, the laughtracks tell you precisely when to laugh. And she types, types,

ponders, what to name her text, AN IRANIAN IN VANCOUVER would be a good title,

what with everything Iranian being in these days, besides, there is the obvious

connotation of AN AMERICAN IN PARIS, anyhoo, she types, types, types. She ponders,

if she should talk one of her relatives into being a lit agent, she ponders, ponders, ponders

some more. And types, and types. Her sleeping pattern is totally outta whack, she sleeps

from 12 to 3, wakes up, is awake until 6, falls asleep from 6 to 10. this is not good, not

that good. One should sleep in one big whoosh, so it seems, so it seems. She ponders, is it

old age, probably, probably, probably. And she types, types. The ocean factory, majestic

as always, thee typing machine, a tad filthy as always. The day marches forward,

forward. She has a meeting at six. So she has to kill time, time. Two pages, two pages,

typing and typing and typing. A walk by false creek, maybe, fresh air, the like, the like.

, page 34, 10758 words, she knows she is no nanomonth material, and she types,

types, fast and fast and fast, spellcheck, save, the like, the like stop and stop and stop.

- - -

once more in the art school, hardly anyone here, she has until eleven thirty, to be here,

she sits at the keyboard that is so very resistant, such a trouble maker of a key board, she

is slightly elated that she makes the keys go down, kind of like putting an unruly child, or

an unruly adult in line, come to think of it, kids are so much better behaved than adults,

she types, types, against the hunger pangs, against her weary eyes that are tearing over

because she read too much without glasses, script in a too small font, copyediting or

something, anyhow, she types, types, outside Granville island, sun, the like, the like, the

34


ocean factory, the like, the like. Fast jots of amassing two pages, fast, fast, fast. Hardly

anyone in here, a stocky bespectacled man with serious eyes and a blue shirt, very

buttoned up. Anyhoo, author type, types, another figure comes in, in a touque and

swagger, author types, types, types. A lowly saturday in a lowly library, words outta

kilter, somehow, somehow. Stabs at poetic waxings that do not make it, not yet not yet

not yet. She should go to the market, some tea, or something or something. And stop,

spellcheck, save to scribd, why not why not. This is how she stumbles thru her Saturdays,

october, or something, or something. And the ocean factory sings away.

- - -

back in the art school library, her words slowly, outside overcast, the ocean factory

slowly, or something like that, something like that. Monday morning, her writing stalls.

- - -

she is sitting in the library, somehow she cannot use the vcc library anymore, this very

nice, very polite, very soft-spoken lady showed her very politely the door, that's nice, she

could enroll in a continuing ed course to use the typewriter, she is busted, her life of

crime has come to an end, thus she will use the central library from now on, which is not

that nice, there are no earphones and the software is OPEN OFFICE, which is kinda off,

so she types a tad, she cannot use this place more than one hour at a time, time limit, she

has to type fast, fast, anyhoo, this is how it is, this is how it is.

- - -

And back in langara, two twenty six, the tuna on rye was a tad too much, what with the

donut and the bread pudding and the banana loaf, her non-existent hour glass figure will

slither more and more towards dumlingdom, writing seems not to be good for her

35


waistline, she should hit the gym, writing is so sedentary, you have to stationarybike a

lot, a lot. Just walking from house to car to transit seems not to cut it, not, not, not. A

woman at the other computer station eats a lot of chicken fingers, with a plastic fork, the

chicken fingers are actually chicken triangles, triangular strips, she has a tartar sauce with

it and a coke, not a diet one though, she is rail thin and very doll like, how is this

possible, how, how? The author types, types, langara in the after lunch, there is nothing to

say, nothing, nada , zilch. She types mechanically, while watching the world hustle by,

out of the corner of her eyes, that kinda stuff, that, that. Her writing is substandard, she

feels exhausted and like barfing, though barfing needs more energy than she can muster,

she types, types, types. Spellcheck, spellcheck. How can someone that thin eat such a

fattening food, in such an immense quantity, how, how? And French fries, too. Must be

that she eats very slowly and with a fork, finger food with fork, that must be the secret,

the secret. And the author types, types, types. She is getting hungry, the whiff of the

French fries and chicken strips is so overwhelming, she ponders, if she should find out

where it is sold. She types, types, ponders if she should go to the gym or to the chicken

strip place? Really thin women can eat chicken strips and French fries, dumpling women

should chew carrot strips, that is how it is how it is. There are more important issues,

more important issues. And she types, types, types. Love, lust, that should be part of the

equation, how can you possibly sell books sans love and lust? Sans blood? And should

you really use SANS in an English text? Should you should you should you. Overkill of

questions, this better be good, better be good. She should take a writing course, or

something/and something. She feels sick, well, or something/and something. Time to stop

this, the insanity of typing has to wait, wait. 11 587 words, for now, for now, for now.

36


- - -

So, once more in the art school library. No wait let’s go 4

ANOTHER SCENE

She is very beautiful, just because that is how her genes are, the luck of the draw, the luck

of the draw. Sometimes she ponders how the other half lives, but, hey, who cares. She

wears her beauty very nonchalantly, in the same way that other ppl wear their ugliness, it

is just a part of her that she does not really think of, ppl are ppl in her mind, we are all the

same all the same. Or something/and something. She is an exchange student in nyc, here

for the fall semester, her original school is in Milan, that is how it is, how it is. She

usually tries to spend time by herself, she is not shy, she just wants to get the best grade

possible. Especially ‘cause she is an art student, that is such a fickle field, you have to be

extraordinarily good, very hard working, the like the like. Sometimes she makes sure that

her accent is utterly pronounced, a la sofia loren, it might help, then again, it might

backfire. She rushes up the stairs of the SVA, the animation lab is on the fourth floor,

which is kinda inconvenient, she opens the door with her card, starts up the Acrobat

program, this is kinda boring, who loves post production? Shooting the stuff itself is so

much more fun, fun. She ponders if there is really a market for black and white line-based

art films, it worked for kentridge, but then again his stuff had a political bent, whereas

politics is not anything she would infuse into her drawings, she is way too interested in

lines and shapes, politics for her is the stuff of half-drunken discussions in cigar filled

taverns, pubs, that is how it is how it is. Political discussions have to be underscored by

thumping one’s fist on the table, to make a point, to make a point, it is forceful whereas

animation is the beautifully choreographed dance of shapes over the monitor, animation

37


is art, politics is function. That is how it is that is how it is.

AnD Once MORE ANOTHER SCENE

Author on Granville Island, at the black typing key board, the one she never uses.

Because she has the back to the ocean factory. She feeds her words to the machine, just

gave her resume to one of the coffee shops in the market, she might as well do that, her

writing career is way too fickle, besides she can only prosper from the constant work with

the PUBLIC, it is good for a writer, good and good and good. Artists, they have to

interact with as many ppl as possible, she read that somewhere, the day before yesterday,

she is not quite sure, where, who cares, who cares, who cares. She types, fast, furiously,

she wants to finish up her daily allotment, of words, of words. She will go downtown, she

has to run an errand, rush back, do another errand, whatever an errand is, is. Another

scene, huh. As if our lives are divided by scenes, that is so artificial, so artificial.

Stoically she stares down at the keyboard, as if she is a pianist, she types, types, types,.

Too fast., too fast. Types in typo after type after typo. And pause- and spell check.

Spellcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck. One of these days she will write better stuff, but not

today, not now, her fingers fly over the keyboard, fast, fast, linger over letter after letter,

her hands are becoming numb, she is losing it, losing it. Happily so, happily so.

- - -

Not many lines left until the end of the page, she scribbles with the type writer, watches

the words appear on the monitor. There are so many books in this place, on the black

shelves, against the grey walls. All those exhibition catalogues, full of images, full of

hopes, full of those cumulations of ppl’s daily works, ah, who needs art, what is it good

for, what is it good for. And she types, types, types. Nanomonth is coming near, and she

38


types, types, types.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

In the langara library, while outside wind and rain, an octoberday like many, full of

coldness etcetera, waiting to be described, to be eternalized in words, fastness happening,

reluctantly, stoically. The writer and her words, fighting against each other, while study

groups happen lively and happily, while the day murmurs forward, while poetry finds its

readers, reluctantly, reluctantly. Too late for soaps and seinfeld, too late for a meaningful

day, too late for doing laundry or/and the like. Only time to poetize along, spinning a

yarn that refuses to happen, she stares @ the monitor, waits for the kiss of the muse, good

luck with that, good luck, good luck. On the third floor of this place, tolstoi, dostojevski,

the like, the like. The white and black building in the distance, the elegant ferns moving

silently in the breeze, the day is waiting to happen, not yet, not yet. Just another Friday

that does not want to happen, that wants to be quiet, with a good book at a fire place, that

refuses hyperness, that happens in the midst of old age, old age. Where rocking chairs are

so very there, a blackbird sailing thru the blue sky filled with clouds, white et. al. Her

poetry stinks up the room, the grassgreen chairs in the distance, nothing left to write,

nothing, nothing, nothing. Her hiccups enliven the text, slightly, slightly. Her writing is

substandard, ah, why not, why not, why not? Writers’ fest happening on granville island,

how nice, nice. Nobody invited her for a reading, how sad, how sad. Writing and typing

and typing. Against the incompetence that is so inherent in her writing, it seems, it seems,

it seems. She wishes for better writing, better words, eloquence, the like, the like. No

angst-ridden non-narratives. No quivering of the letters, no more, no more. So many

39


studygroups, full of laughter and happiness, she types, types, types. The text marches

forward, the day marches forward, into the night or something/and something, 12 631

words , for now, for now.

- - -

On tv, Cameron, bbc, miliband, outside slight rain, drizzle, drizzle. She was reading

mordecai richler’s autobiography, wondering how different writing is with a typewriter,

how easy it is now, or is it, or is it? She feels slightly sick, like barfing, barfing, that is not

the language she should use, not , not. Her words are substandard, it seems, seems. She

types away, trying to amass words, words, she knows that nano month will start up in 8

days, she will just forge on with this very text, forget about throwing her hat into the ring

for the one month long writing frenzy, she should be able to do just fine without the

socialization with total strangers in either the Granville street blenz or/and the downtown

library. She can write by herself, why not, why not. 12 799 words, nexting towards 13

thou, she ponders if NEXTING and THOU are even words, if they can be legitimate

neologisms, or if they are too bizarre.

On tv, some news about equestrian life, the author ponders what to write about, there is

not much to describe here, she cannot really write about what she sees on the telly, there

is nothing to describe in this room, except for the ubiquitous keyboard, she should move

around town, watch people, make up stories, trying to imagine their lives, trying to

phantom a plot, and any plot will do, should do. Film making seems so far away,

painting, drawing. She should do laundry, it is the weekend, time to do that kind of stuff,

that kind, that kind. Her words are not good enough, too meek, way too meek. No drama,

no action, the day stands still, slightly, slightly. Short, very fast sketches, notes on the

40


monitor, on the monitor. Her back is hunched over, while she types, fast, fast. 12 948, 12

950.

She catches herself staring down at the monitor, searching for words, yearning for words.

12 966, 12969. She could stop once she reaches 13 000, there is nothing to say any more,

she will wait for the muse to kiss her, later, later. Until then, this is typing, not writing.

Yuh. And 13 007 it is.

- - -

back in the library of the art school, writing fast, typing fast, she just wants to put in as

much words as she possibly can, she feels hungry, lunch time, she just listened in to a talk

about creativity, which was kind of annoying, because, hey, how do you define creativity,

innovation, the like, can one even train a person to become more creative, less creative,

anyhoo, any hoo.

- - -

Not many lines left until the end of the page, she scribbles with the type writer, watches

the words appear on the monitor. There are so many books in this place, on the black

shelves, against the grey walls. All those exhibition catalogues, full of images, full of

hopes, full of those cumulations of ppl’s daily works, ah, who needs art, what is it good

for, what is it good for. And she types, types, types. Nanomonth is coming near, and she


- - -

she rolled outta bed, found something green to wear, sleepily she sat behind the wheel,

off to the place where commuters get off, she takes the train downtown, thru the rain, she

goes up to the third floor, finds herself in front of the computer. Starts typing, typing.

41


This is her life, life. Automatically pushing down of buttons, this cannot be good, cannot

be good, cannot be that good. She could do anything else, the most important thing is the

routine, the doing of something as if you have to, as if your livelihood depends on it.

Which is not how authors work, they first have to write their 110 000 words and then find

a market, they have to be able to churn this out, before getting compensated. She ponders,

she could do the same with paint, smush it on canvas, find a gallerist, she could do the

same with animation, make a film, send it off to the festival circuit, something like that,

something like that. Or, maybe, she is like a farmer, who harvests his goods and then

takes them to the market. She ponders, philosophically, while the day happens slowly,

while the green-turquoise round sign is on the wall, the one that reads find it @ vpl.ca.

The author notices that the round thing is actually an apple, a green apple, jonathan smith,

she thought it is the earth or something, but, hey, why not, something round could be an

apple, she ponders how library and apple mix with each other, what are the connotations,

what, what. She ponders if she should sprinkle this with elaborations about how vpl

stands 4 vancouver public library, she scratches her head, automatically, just because the

person next to her scratches his head, he mumbles too. Well, at least, he is clean shaven,

and that is so very important, clean shavenness, we cannot have non-cleanshavenness

here, she types, in nothing but bullshit, nothing but, nothing but.

Her words climper into the monitor, the library is happening, she ponders, ponders.

Person next to her coughs, hey, take your germs and leave, the author looks up at the

TELEPHONE BOOKS sign, red on white, must mean that there are telephone books in

that beige shelf, ah, her ability to deduce is second to none. And she types, types, types,

forward to nanomonth. No time for nano month meetings, every day is nanomonth, which

42


does not really make sense, every month is nano month, that is how the sentence should

go, if you shoot for sensical, at the border of nonsensical, she types, types, types. And

stop and spellcheck, spellcheck. She ponders , do textmessagers have spell check, does a

blackberry have spellcheck, she types, types, types. Who would be in the central library

at ten in the morning, retirees, the unemployed, and the very employed library staff, she

types and types and types. This is her painting studio, her animation studio, her writing

studio, this better be good, better be good. And stop, and outta here, and spellcheck,

something like that, something of that kind. 13 607 words, 13 607, 13 607. her writing

teacher said, hey, that is your thing, the wordcount, the mentioning of the word count,

yep, must be her niche, what with literary incompetence, what with writerly

disorientation, what with this, that, and the other. Her words, her words, her words.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

The so very old overaged writer in his writing nook, trying to pen his final masterpiece,

the crowning of his long and illustrious career, he used to bang the keys of the old rusty

typewriter in his father’s garage next to the model T- he stops, he used to live in a one-

bedroom apartment in reykjavik, so some things in this story do not make sense, there are

all these loose ends in his inventions and reinventions of his own persona and he never

had a fashionable plot, he did not write about tattoos, dragon or otherwise, he refused to

drink ale, dark or otherwise, he was not even quite sure of his own gender. He was as

much a she as the next he. Authors are androgynous, that is why non-fiction stuffi muffi

does not even mention the omnipresent author, the author hides behind the story of the

facts, and the facts hide the story, or something/and something. Sitting here typing,

43


typing, the author picks cheap gimmicks out of thin air, this month seems to be the OR

SOMETHING/ AND SOMETHING month.

AND STILL ANOTHER SCENE:

Author, hunched over, in a shabby, red striped shirt, hunched over, typing, typing. In the

distance, on the bookshelf, a cat stevens CD, before his yussuf islam time. The author

ponders, there should be a Dianne Krall CD somehere, between Moka Only and

Offspring stuff. Some Linkin Park. Some Beethoven, some Bach. Some kind of music.

Who cares, who cares. The author is falling asleep at the type writer, she has not heard

back from any agent. They ignore her, her stupendous writing is doomed to rot in the

basement. Better then rotting in a landfill. She can save it to a usb-stick, tons of novels on

a usb-stick, hanging around her neck. She read somewhere that jack Kerouac used to

have various manuscripts in his back pack, carrying them around nyc. Some kind of

weird urban myth, histories invented, lives that never were. She ponders, who makes up

stories about literary figures, anyhoo, she ponders, ponders. Types And types and types.

To the edge of nanomonth, she has 14 zero twenty words, she is out of words, has no

plot, none, not yet, not yet. Her text hiccups in silent contradiction, that is how it is, that

is how it is. She will take the bus downtown, walk through the drizzling day, tired from

her literary output, the one that is not, not yet, not yet, not yet. Sleep would be nice,

insomnia sucks, the like, the like, the like. Sentence fragments have to do, have to do. For

now, yep, 4 NOW. And spellcheck and save.

- - -

Inside the room with closed curtains, nothing interesting to describe, the author is fresh

and ready to put down two pages, it is beginning of nanomonth, author did not register,

44


she will pen her stuff by her own, all by her own. Who needs socializing, the only thing

that matters is her laptop and her daily input. She looks up at the glasses in the, well,

glasses drawer, all transparent, all lined up, waiting to be taken out and filled with water,

the author ponders, is there an amazing plot somewhere in those glasses, is that what we

are shooting for here, a plot, a plot. The author ponders, describing the banal, the

everyday, how high does that rank in the hierarchy of subject matters? The inanimate, can

it hold itself against car chases, against the 007’s of this world, against cliffhangers, the

like, the like, against dragontattoed girls, can it, can it? The prosaic, squeezed like a

lemon, permeating the air with whiffs of literary greatness, author ponders, ponders. Her

fate is too sisyphian, not sisyphian enough, outside of this room, vancouver is waking up,

against the downpour of the rain, against remnants of Halloween, a Monday morning,

like so many, like so many. The city getting ready to work, or something, and something.

Canada line, trains, buses, the like, the like. Her fingers over the key board, fast and fast

and fast. This is her car chase, the typing, the typing. Monotony, the chase does not

accelerate, it is one long movement, the whiff of coffee. Of hash browns at mac donalds,

a Monday morning, one Monday morning of many. How many words, how many words.

She should go out, take her laptop with her, somewhere on commercial, where the poets

live, roaming thru coffeehouses, ready to start a new artistic movement, ah, she types and

types and types. She does not need gatherings of artists and poets, she can type and write

and type in a vacuum, drunken with her own thoughts, her words that feed upon each

other, she does not need subject matter, a fine-tuned plot, she just needs her ability, to sit

straight, to hold her neck high, to write, to type,., she ignores her aching back, her

hunched over shoulders, she types, types, these are her words, these are her days. She

45


should write better words, better and better, but at this time, this is enough, ah, so good

enough. She will find readers, eventually, eventually. Bored ones, hyper ones, readers

who hate her stuff, readers who love her stuff, anyhoo, she types, types, types her days

away. And spellcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck forever, frorever.

The breadmaker on the counter, the flickering light on the wake-up machine, another day

moves forward, moves forward. Two pages should be finished by now, this better be

good, better be good, she will edit this, maybe, so very maybe, some more words, ah,

some more words. A sing song about love, drama, the like, she listens in to her typing,

she stops, stops. These are her days, these are her days.

- - -

once more in the art school library, looking up at the ocean factory, she types fast, that

seems to be the only thing she does these days, fast typing, fast typing. Not good typing,

not fabricating of some manifestation of great ideas, only the pressing down of the

buttons is what counts, counts. Like working at a machine, the words do not really count,

what is fascinating is the process, the process, the end result is irrelevant, so very

irrelevant. She ponders, this kind of flippant attitude will shoo away even the most

motivated readers, she ponders, a good writer should not think about the reader, a good

writer writes, period, disregarding the target audience, so it seems, so it seems. Is

literature art, is it communications, is it the struggle with words, is it a trade? What is it

exactly, exactly? And she types, types, there should be antagonists, protagonists, that is

how writing should be, she pushes down the keys, is sitting at the bad keyboard again,

types, and types and types. She had enough of writing, the word count does not really

count, her writing is off, so off, she will never publish this, no one wants to read this,

46


everything sucks, sucks, sucks. Somehow there should be a tad more positivity, a tad a

tad a tad. 14 935 words, she could hit 15 000, easily, easily. If this strong feel of nausea

subsides, must be the too greasy cake, the too greasy dollop, her writing sucks, but, hey,

she is moving forward here, and maybe that is all that counts, counts.

She should take the bus downtown, apply for a job, that kinda stuff, writing will go

nowhere, besides it is too boring, sitting and typing, what kind of a job is that, is that?

15003, ah, finally, 15000 words of whining. There is a title, there is a great new title for

this text, it changes constantly anyways.

- - -

a day, rainy, back in the art school library, writing, typing. the author ponders if writing

and typing is the same, obviously the famous Truman capote quip comes to mind, but,

hey, writing is typing, these are the days of emoticons and tweets, of texting and touchy i-

pads, these are other times, better times. these are the days of spellchecks, of 30

simultaneous e-queries, these are other days, better days. so she hopes, so she feels.

authors have changed, their backgrounds have changed, roll over, she pauses,

contemplates, who should roll over. her writing is incoherent, incoherence wins, always,

always.

- - -

a somber morning at the keyboard, her back is acting up, it is only her and the tastatur,

black with some white thin letters, some blue stuff, some red, her fingers with rubyred

nailpolish, beige fingers, red tips, the dark black lines on her weathered fingers, blue

veins, she ponders, if that is enough subject matter, strong enuf, strong enuf, is this what

readers want, probably not, probably not. Her kitchen table, in its omnipresent kitchen

47


table existence, the breadmaker on the counter, the green potholder, with blue checkers,

hanging near the oven, this is not stuff to write about, the light on the cd-player, the

roaring of the laptop, the clicker-clacker of the pushed-down keys, her humming, the

words that appear on the monitor, letter by letter, letter by letter. 15 thousand words she

has, already, already, she might as well join the nanomonthers, run with them, to the

bitter end, one of many 50 000 word treatises, at the end of november, the end of

november. It will be a quasi-nano-novel, she will query agents, who are used to the

December-influx of nano-month- works, she will do that, compete against first-time-

nonomonthers, this is insane, ah, so insane. She looks up at the oranges on the counter,

two of them, against the quince from the neighbor’s garden, the one that no one knows

how to use, one could chop it into a stew, it just tastes sweet and blah, anyhoo, she types,

types, how many words here, how many, how many. She ponders, if she should put a

question mark at the end of a question, a quasi-question, a rhetorical question. Who are

Chicago-manualers, do they get ahead, are they too conservative, the author is sure, there

are more pressing issues, world issues, peace-war-issues, her writing is substandard,

substandard, she will never make it as a writer, never, never, never. 15 442 words, aha,

words that do not count, words that whimper along, that struggle, each and every one of

them without consequence, words that will not change the world, that will not instigate

courage and/or heroism, words that are way too female, or/and way too masculine, too

yesterday and/or too tomorrow. Whatever they are, they are TOO, too, too much. Ah,

herwords, ah, her words. 15 508, she should go out, have a brisk walk, she feels a

toothache coming up, this is not the stuff of greater lit, it is lower lit, she feels exhausted,

blinded by her own prose, the words, the words, the words. The morning that marches

48


into the day, forcefully, reluctantly, she needs to go and take the bus, she needs to take

the Canada line, she needs to hurl thru the world in a metal container, with others, with

people with jobs, non-writers, non-writers. Potential readers, she will convince them one

by one to read her prose, whatdoyouthink, isitgood, isitbad, am I a gifted writer, a shitty

writer, what, what. She should instigate focus groups, are these words better, are these

worse, what is the target audience, how does this work how does this work. Ah, the lowly

writer at her keyboard, at least it is free, said the painter, no storage, no upkeep, no studio

cost, free, free, only you and your art. Hmm, maybe, maybe. 15679 words, slight ones,

forceful ones. A protagonist that isn’t, an antagonist, that isn’t, it is man against the

machine, woman against the typewriter, her eyes are starting to burn, tear up, enough of

this, enough of this, enough already, enough already. 15 729, on a cold november

morning, words and words and words. And stop and spellcheck. That is how it is that is

how it is.

- - -

inside the library, on the third floor, typing away, typing away. The author is busy

emulating different personae, she is trying to construct a plot, she ponders, if she should

overuse or underuse the word “try”. She forges forward with the text, there are so many

words waiting to be typed, the library is happening, pretty forcefully, on this late

november morning in downtown vancouver. The hum of the freshly opened library, the

constant typing, typing, all these ppl, like ants, like ants. The author took the canada line,

standing neck to neck with other minions that are loaded into the metal box, swirling thru

the tunnels into downtown, downtown. And she types, types. Next to her a schoolgirl,

typing away fast, fast. This is the day @ the library, where words are hammered into the

49


machines, fast and fast and faster. Rush hour in the library, outside in the far, quivering

yellow-ochre leaves in front of the oversized earth picture, which on second glance is a

blue aqua budget sign. Budget as in the car rental place. She types, types, wishes for a

camera, her words seem to be off, so very, very off. It is nanomonth, her second

nanomonth, but her text is slow, way to slow for this november. Ah, well, at least, she

will feed two pages to the machine, each and every day. That should be fine what with

upholding her remnants of sanity, what with not slithering too close into the abyss of

insanity. How nice, how nice. She ponders, she should construct sex-laden narratives,

oozing with violence, political intrigue, the like, the like. That is what sells, sells, sells.

So they say, so they say. And God only knows who THEY are. 50 pages, ah, not bad, not

bad. Fifty pages of suspended poetry, fifty pages of glances of the writer @ herself, fifty,

ah, 50. the day marches forward, forcefully, reluctantly. Something like that, something

like this. She formulates her words as if she is sketching a fashion model, as if she is

designing, her own spring collection, to be on the runway in milan and tokio. That is how

it feels to be a writer, that is how it feels to be an author. She should start drinking,

heavily, hard liquor, that is what poets do, that is what writers do, they have bigger than

life personalities, grand gestures is what they do, so she heard, so she read. No bookish

types for you, no slim built creatures who are wrestling down words, timidly, timidly.

Words are not butterflies that you run after over a sunny meadow, they have to be strong

and forceful. The author stops, enough of this bullshit, bullshit. Today is not her day, she

fells like barfing all over the keyboard, she should stop, stop, yep, she has to stop. For

now, for now, 4 Now.

- - -

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maybe some more words, maybe some more words. The slight beginning of page 51, fast,

fast. Only 19 minutes left to save this, writing under the gun, that is not how words

should be flowing, they have to have fluidity, have to be elegant, eloquent.

The author types away, against the nausea that sets in, so very automatically. She looks

up at the quivering leaves in front of the aqua sign, writing is not good for the system, it

annoys the hell outta her, outta her. Some more words, ah, some more words. Maybe an

antagonist will smush itself into her lines. Maybe a nice, fluid storyline will arise outta

this, by accident or something, maybe, so very maybe. 50 pages and a half, she types and

types, and types some more. Looks down at the black keyboard, her ruby red nails, the

aqua budget sign, the day marches forward, forward. Her words are reluctant, that is how

it is, that is how it is. Her refusal to write a strong outline is not good for marketability, it

depreciates the sellability, so it seems, so it seems. She has two pages by now, she might

as well stop, stop. Have tea or something, go back to oakridge, leave literature alone,

alone. For now for now 4 noW.

- - -

A reluctant day in an overcluttered house, she ponders, wonders, where her glasses are,

she cannot really make out the text on the monitor, there is not enough light here, not

enough to illuminate the screen. She debates if she should take her laptop with her and

once more slither down to the starbucks on arbutus, if she can type better words there, so

much better, so much better ones. Is writing in a crowded public place more conducive to

writing, especially to writing that you want to put in the public domain? She walks thru

her place, starts gesticulating to herself, talking to herself, oviding away, grand gestures,

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this cannot be good, not that good. She sits down once more at the kitchentable, starts

typing, typing. Ah, the subject matter of the hapless artist, the writer with the unkempt

hair, the 7 year old orange sweater with holes, the jeans with frays, the epitome of an

artist who cares about her work and - she finally found her glasses and puts them on - she

pauses, this is not true, her glasses are somewhere in her purse - but she slips into a

persona, the persona she describes in her text, the fictional writer, that has shades and

traits of her, but that is fictional, fictional by the mere representation in another medium,

with words, with letters on a dimly lit screen, utterings that are supposed to conjure up

this so very immediate moment some time, so very far away, in the future. Insanity is

palpable, she should venture out, feel the drizzle of the rain on her forehead, she should

take the bus to the ferry terminal, horseshoe bay, tsawwassen, either way should be just

fine, she should stare out at the water, she should listen to the silence within herself, she

should stop making up bullshitty words that are too poetic, too laden with sugary pathos

that smushes the fresh and sudden pangs of eloquence, the lingering wishes for highly

intellectual glimmers of trying to articulate the unarticulatable, she overuses words to

make a point, she shoots this highly convoluted ammunition of sentences at the

inexplicable, the short feel that cannot be described, ever, ever, ever.

And 16 824 words we have.

- - -

In the slightly cold room, watching tv, bbc international, she types types. Thinks about

what to write about, knows that she has to make up a story, ah, a story. A good story, a

good enough story should do, should do. She looks up at the bookshelf, her book should

be just as good, or better, or better. She ponders what else to write about, there is not

52


much to see in this room, a television, that is all there is. The movement on the screen,

colours, the like, the like. Boredom suspended. She could do some cooking, some baking,

some cleaning, or she could just go on with her typing, her typing. The green plant on the

brown table, she could describe each and every leaf. Could do this, that, the other. Her

writing, her writing. Fragmented, reluctant, the like, the like. And another documentary

piece on tv. 16 978 words, rushing towards 17 000, fast, fast, faster. Spellcheck, save, the

night so near, so near, the end of the page so near, so near. Tomorrow, another day, what

with delicately constructed plot, tomorrow, ah, tomorrow. And 17 zero nineteen it is. And

stop, and save.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

A reluctant morning in the langara library, some sunny weather with sprinkles of rain, a

blue-ish sky with darkish featherballs that can pass as clouds, some woman in a purple

jacket made out of cheap cotton, sitting at the computer, typing, typing. Her writer-career

is stalling, as is her art career, her painting career, her film career. Somewhere in some

drawer she has her little degree, tucked away, she should venture out, find a waitressing

job, a retail job. That is what happens to cultural workers, which seems to be a slightly

weird, slightly strange term, bizarre, what is culture, where does it exist, what is the exact

physical location. The author, she writes, her words rain down on the keyboard, the sun

comes up, she types and types and types. Propelled forward by the constant clicker-

clacker of the keyboard next to her, the library makes her type, type. 17 181 words, 17

185. This is her subject matter, to bemoan the lack of good enough subject matter, her

whining must masquerade as good enuf prose, good enuf, good enough. She should use

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the social networks, put her stuff on facebook, for the world to see, for the world to see.

Her writing should be able to withstand scrutiny, it should hold up, has to hold up. She

will not hide from critiques and the critics who dispense them, she will not run to her

room under the attic, and curl up under the woolen sheets, in embryonic position, she will

face everyone who dares to criticize her words, everyone, anyone. Her craft, so very, very

debatable, so “not quite there” as of yet, her perpetual “works in progress”, that clutter

her basement, that take up space on the redbrown usb-stick in her night stand, that float

thru cyberspace, along with her films, her images, her blogs, a museum of work, that

exists in the clouds, the clouds. No tactile stuff. Maybe words have come full–circle, they

exist for a moment, a moment in time. Just like us, we are all mere mortals, and she types

and types and types. Here, on this so very reluctant morning in november, overreaching

into late afternoon. She weaves her filigree words that are so very slight, that quiver in

the wind, 4 a moment, for a moment.

She is hungry, time to get a donut, some tea, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. Time to

board the canada line, take the train to the airport, look at the airplanes, while they take

off, that is how writers kill time between typing-stunts, that is what they do, while

rejectionletters arrive in the mail and in the inbox, and she types and types and types,

types, types, types some more. Last year’s nanomonth novel is still waiting to be typed

up, this how it is and this is how it is.

- - -

in the central library, looking up at the floor above, she is writing, writing. Pencils on the

table, an amnesty international film festival flyer on the table, she is writing, writing. The

words are slightly outta kilter, not polished enough, not yet, not yet. How do you polish

54


words, a text, how do you make it readable, understandable, how do you choreograph the

perfect sequences of elegant forays into eloquence, how do you write great stuff without

sounding redundant, without sounding inadequate. She pauses, looks up the spelling of

flyer, apparently flyer is as good as flier, or even better, the typing is coming along, she

has now near to 55 pages, she will finish at 300 pages, thus, still a long way to go, still a

long long way to go. Who will read this, ever, ever. It will rot away somewhere in

cyberspace, no book tours, no slight spectacles at the KGB, no giller prize, nothing, nada,

zip, zilch. She ponders, is trinkets what she wants, silver mugs that she can hold in one

hand while thanking the audience, while smiling, while trying to say something

intelligent, something new. Who needs a stanley cup, a gold medal, who needs it, who,

who. Who needs recognition, who, who. And she types, types - her questions are

answerless, rhetorical, unsolvable, that kinda stuff, that kind, that kind. And the day in the

library marches forward, her days in front of all these computers, she types, types, types.

34 minutes are left on this computer, she will type fast, see what can be said, under the

gun, under the gun. No thoroughly thought-thru sentences, ah, no time, no time. Fast,

fast, fast typing, that's where it's @, fast, fast and faster. The process of penning a piece

of lit, a text that stabs at coherence and utterly fails, utterly fails. So it seems, so it seems.

Protagonists with minds of their own, scenes that stop in mid-air, climaxes that never are

and never will be. That is how we write, that is how we write. And 17 870 words it is.

- - -

another day in the downtown library. She looks up at the yellow sign over the monitor,

she ponders, she could describe the black letters on the yellow sign, she could describe

everything here, she could, she could. There are no limitations, she could write random

55


sentences, all somehow going with the main theme, not that she is that sure what the main

theme is. First it was about zombies, but zombies were never mentioned. Then it was

about the status of the hapless writer, who struggles with words. Then - she pauses, it still

seems about the hapless writer, it always is, always is. The persona of a writer, described

in detail, a selfportrait, a selfportrait. Hapless writer, there is a good enuf title 4 this. She

ponders, what does hapless even mean? She could google it, bolster her lingo with facts

or/and semifacts. Everything seems so redundant, what with the too wet fleece that she

can feel thru her thin t-shirt, the one that is on the back of her seat. She notices that her

syntax is off, ah, that happens to hapless writers, day-in, day-out. Outside rain, outside

november fifteen. Which does not really make sense, it is just as much november 15

inside here as it is outside of here. Ah, her so very profound insights, her words, ah, her

words. She could spellcheck a tad, she could save this a tad, she could email this to

agents in nyc, she could, she should. Her stupid little art career, the one that lets her run

after butterflies that plunker away. Her words, her words, her words. Her so very shitty

writings. On a rainy day, in downtown vancouver. Moments on paper, moments in

cyberspace. Somehow she has 2 figure out a way 2 monetize this, she will, will.

Eventually, that is. Half of nanomonth is over, that is just a fact, a fact. The author knows

that she still has to typo up last years naNO NOVEL, SHE IS EXHAUSTED WITH

THIS WRITING CAREER THAT SEEMS TO STALL, STALL, STALL. WHAT BIG

BREAK, THERE IS NO BIG BREAK. NONE, NONE, THIS IS HOW IT IS, THIS IS

HOW IT WILL BE, SHE WILL BE WRITING, AND NO ONE WILL READ THIS.

SHE WILL PUT IT INTO CUYBERSPACE, RELUCTANTLY- and she has no clue

which button she pushed, so very much by accident, her words are suddenly capitalized,

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that is how it is that is how it is. She should make up scenes , she should construct plots,

she should, she should. Writing is not about watching your fingers dance over the

keyboard, it has to make sense, sense. It has to be insightful, a tad, a tad. Serious stuff,

full of grit and determination. Not just playing the keyboard as if it is a piano, it has to be

a well constructed symphony., one that moves the reader, that makes us cry, reluctantly,

ever so. She hates writing, this is not her day, her words are stalling, who knows why,

anyhoo, she types, types. Someone is putting coin after coin into the printer, the author

ponders, how many words, she should call it a day, a day. This is not going anywhere, not

today, not today. Must be the rain, must be, must be. The muse does her own thing today,

is on vacation, that kinda thing, stop the typing, stop and stop and stop. 57 pages, ah well,

in times new roman, 12 point, doublespaced, november marches forward, and we write,

write, write. And write some more.

- - -

At the computer in langara, she types, types. Her shoes are rained in, her feet wet, it is not

that intelligent to wear croqs and grey woolen socks, while rain is prasseling down on the

city. A woman in pink walks by, the whole library is likea bee-hive. The author types in

here, on and off, since beginning of april, this is her second book this year. This better be

good better be good better. Still no protagonist, no antagonist, still just the city, rain and

the like. Still only keyboards waiting for her input. This better be good better be good

better be good. One of these days she will manage to get published, one of these days,

one of these days. She ponders how will her days be different, is it even relevant,

important, does it make any dif if one is published or not. Should one use words like dif,

and she types, types, the day marches forward, still wet feet, somewhere, sometime in

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mid-november, mid-november of 2010. 18 629 words, ah well, ah well.

- - -

the rain is just a tad too much, once more in the library of the art school, the author rolled

out of bed, in the morning, put on some clothes, sleepily brushing her teeth, having a

coffee in the supermarket that reluctantly was coming awake, watching people going

ahead with their daily routines, she somehow made it down here, she starts to type, the

ocean factory looks down upon her, her words are so very, very off today, ah, one more

day of whining and crying into the computer, bemoaning the incessant internal nag of the

little engine that couldn’t, and she types, types, yep, what else is there left to do. Her

words might as well dance in perfect formation, by sheer accident, who knows, who

knows. How would you know how good you are with words, if you don’t try don’t try.

One day she will go to pick out the Chicago manual that sits on the shelf behind the

computers, she will polish up these words, one day an agent in nyc will take her on, one

day she will be an accomplished writer, maybe even a published one. But, hey, obscurity

is more fun, more dramatic, with tinges of hope that will never be, how can you possibly

write good stuff while pompom girls rara a tad too deafening, the only good writers are

the ones that no one knows and no one reads, those are the chosen ones, the chosen ones.

Who needs popularity when you can work in utter unpopularity, when there is nothing to

lose and nothing to gain, you know, as in freedom is just another word for nothing left to

lose, that is how writers should work, artists should paint, in studios that lack heating,

romanticized, bohemian, like that, like that.

And she types, ah, types, and if nothing else works, a strategically placed AH will always

pull the text into the right direction. Time 2 go down to the market, go down to the

58


market. The printer noises away, rain pours down, that is how it is that is how it is. She

could count the words, but why, yep, why. Why indeedy. Yep and indeedi, that is how we

write here, feminine with mom jeans and momhaircut, too suburban, or something/and

something. Words like gravy, too slow, 2 slow, way too slow. And save, and spell check,

the like, da likE. Words that never were and never will be. Thatkind, that kind. 19057.

nineteen ZERO FIVE SEVEn. And a dot and a dot.

- - -

she is sitting in the vancouver public library, eleven forty seven, she ponders

if she should document everything and anything, the orange-brown paper-coffeemug on

the computerstation opposite of her, the brown writing on the mug that reads “c'est ca que

j'm...”, which does not make sense, any sense whatsoever, anyhoo, she types types types.

Ponders, wonders if she should change the title of this text once more, this time it should

be called “mallcat”, and mallcat is a tad betta than “mallrat”. - she ponders, there was a

film with that name, she should look it up, anyhoo, she types types types. Feels tired, the

sun in her eyes is deeply annoying, this is not good not good. Apparently the highrise

next to the library did not exist when the library went up, so the reflection of the sun in

the window of an apartment was not foreseeable, well, apparently the sun moved a tad

and the sun is not in the author's eyes anymore, she ponders why she types up all these

trivial observations, she feels like barfing all over the key board, writing sucks, sucks.

Especially hers, especially hers. The words are non-eloquent, stalling, this is how it is that

is how it is. 19 292, 19293. if this was nanomonth, she should still put in 30 000 more by

the end of the month. 30 000 in 12 days, hmm, good luck with that, good luck with that.

She should pen 5000 words per day, she looks at her hands, her knuckles would hurt,

59


something like that, something, something. A novel, huh, what exactly is a novel? The

observations of a mallcat, how is that 4 a plot. A non-plot. She should type, write

something fascinating. Whatever that is whatever that is. And 19 382 it is. At the fringe

of nanomonth, the edge of nanomonth, something like that, something like that.

Nonsensical sentences, words that do not go anywhere, sentences under the gun,

utterings, mutterings. A lowly writer, without a publishing contract, a writer that cannot,

cannot deliver. One that is feeling like barfing. Like crying, that is utterly exhausted and

so very, very- she pauses -is not quite sure what “so very, very” she is, she just likes to

sprinkle dramatic phrases into the text, tries to foreshadow a climax, something like that,

something of that kind. Ah, how many words, how many words? Word. Word in a rap

kinda way, with arms in front of the chest, looking down. Yep, that kinda word, with

origins in oakland, slight affirmations of a fist strut into the air, somewhere on an

olympian podium, somewhere in the seventies, dissent forever, 4 Eva, something like

that, something of that kind. Utterings, mutterings, slight inklings, a song, asong. Ah,

how many words, how many many words?

- - -

she is not quite sure if it is good 4 her body to be keeping sitting here and typing. A walk

would be good, a brisk one, a change in position, a fresh breeze against the face, wind,

slight on, all over the nose, cheeks, chin, forehead, hair in your face, she types, types,

though, not moving, sitting here, so very sedentary, trying to sit slightly arched to the

front, she watches her rubyred nail-polished fingers moving over the black keyboard, the

one with the white letters, she ponders, if she should ask the librarian to pull down the

blinds over the window, the sun is in my eyes the sun is in my eyes. She typos, types

60


types. Should be 20 000 by now, by now. She checks, yes, indeedy. Ah, words of the

like of yep and indeedi, you cannot write hi lit with words like that. Indeedi, that will

never make it into the new yorker, mall talk, suburban words, omgd, amgwd. And she

types, types, forward marching text, slightly, slightly. Her writing, her writings. While

sitting put, while tilting her head, a tad, a tad. She will save this, will go to tim hortons, a

donut to cure the mid autumn blues, sugarr, grease, ah, the like, the like. Better than gin

aND TONIC, ARTISTS AND THEIR VICES, COMES WITH THE TERRIRTORY

COMES with the TERRITORY YOU FOOL. AND WE TyPE AND WE TYPE. Words

on paper, good ones, bad ones. Ah, nanomonth, ah nanomonth. Going insane is fun, fun.

- - -

It is exactly three PM. The author is sitting in her derelict studio in a walk-up in

reykjavic, at least that is how she sees it. Writers do have to live in bohemian

circumstances, that is how literature is made, that is how it is how it is. Walk-up, that

sounds good, the author is not quite sure what a walk-up is, but she assumes that that is

the location that makes for superb wordings, that is where the next great novel is penned.

She looks out the window, no more rain, how nice for vancouver in november, the author

ponders if she is getting insaner, what with having fictional and real personae, anyhoo,

she types and types. Maybe if she can will herself she will pass the 50 000 word limit by

november 30, yeah, why not why not why not. Four more words, four more words. 20

000 is so very near, one can almost touch it, almost smell it. She types types types. Omits

commas, tells herself that that is artistic, yeah yeah, why not why not why not. 19 977, oh

well, ah well. Good enuf 4 now, this is it, she is outta words outta words. 5 more five,

five. One more … and 20 000 it is. Hooray and the like, the like.

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- - -

She sits on the upright chair with the green-checkered back, she watches family guy and

thinks about the new title she found for her novel. THE YEAR I JOINED PIXAR- how

about that? She is not quite sure what she should write about other than that she filled out

an online-application for pixar but, hey, there is a start. Chances are she will not be hired

thus she can just make up stuff. And it would be a catchy title for a book. Authordom is

so tough these days, publishers are very cautious, so she heard, so she heard. That seems

to be the myth about publishers since day one, she doesn’t believe in it. Good stuff will

always be published, she likes that myth more. Keeps her going, type, type, until she hits

jackpot. Until the amazing narrative will flow from her pen, like magic, like magic. And

her syntax is off, like always, like always. And we write, and we type. Type and type and

type. 20 and 184. 20184.

- - -

Another scene, one that does not fit in with the other scenes. The author ponders,

somehow all these scenes are kind of disjointed, they each march to its own kind of

drummer, the author types away, while cnn does its own thing on the telly, Anderson

360, Jeffrey toobin, ah, talking heads, talking heads. The night is upon us, the author uses

much too much pathos when choosing her words, she tries to hammer in as many words

as she can, she would like to produce 30 000 words by the end of november, which

means basically 2500 words per day, ten pages per day, fast, fast sentences. She ponders

if she should drive down to the starbucks on arbutus, there is so much to see there, one

can just look around, and there are ample things to describe, which cannot be said for this

place, she is sitting hunched over, the tv does its own thing, nothing is happening,

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nothing worth describing. She starts staring into space, she has to come up with a good

story, at least a good enough story, a love interest, some s-e-x, the like, the like. Her

shoulder is acting up, too much typing, way too much, way too much. Would be good if

one could take the laptop on a bike ride, maybe she should start talking into a dictaphone,

it feels so very strange to be chained to a computer, when writing, when writing. Too

stationary, way too stationary. She should tackle big issues, should do this, should do

that. Should wander out, look around, find stuff to write about, she should drive down to

the supermarket, walk down the aisles, put that into her text, let it flow into her writing,

somehow, somehow. 20 483 words, fast sentences, fast sentences. She could make her

way down to UBC, not now, but in the morning, to one of the nano wrimo meetings,

either in the blenz at ubc village or in the room on the second floor to the right,

somewhere in the irving k. barber building. And she types, types.

There is another talking head now, they change constantly, this is not what one should

listen to while writing. Music would be good, instrumental, beautiful music, that would

translate into equally beautiful words. And she types, types.

- - -

20 577 words, the author heaps on more words, fast, faster. While the telly yelps away,

she looks up at the books on the upper book shelf, a book with the letters E A R T H on

the spine, earth. There should be stories here to be penned, interesting ones, banal ones.

Epics and short, short moments.

- - -

The author is out of words, nothing to describe, nothing to describe. She ponders how she

will produce 50 000 words by the end of november, but she said that already, wrote that

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already.

To write about not being able to come up with a good narrative, that is actually a way too

thin premise for an interesting novel. The author scratches her head, pondering how she

can combat writer’s block, her complete inability to fashion a well-crafted story, the

green flowerpot in the distance seems to be the most interesting object worth describing

in this room.

Her words are way too stocky, nothing fluent or eloquent here, no glimmering dots in the

lingo, nothing, nothing, nothing poetic, nothing poetic enough. She feels like barfing all

over the keyboard, maybe the constant interaction with a computer is not that good for

the system, the sitting hunched over, the sitting with cramped up shoulders. The

mechanistic pushing of all these keys, her neck is too contorted, she types, types, types.

- - -

And now there are 20 817 words, the author ponders, she will have to start editing this,

come December, come January.

- - -

THE YEAR I WANTED TO JOIN PIXAR- the author stares at the screen of her laptop,

she ponders, this is not exactly a catchy title. Or is it? INSOMNIA- now that seems more

like it. These days of constant writing are marked by her weird sleeping patterns, she

sleeps for about four hours, only to find herself wide awake in the middle of the night.

Tossing and turning and a final ending up at the laptop, with a glass of warm milk,

typing, typing. The author ponders, poetry does not do her good, is too tough on her

system, all this relentless pushing down of all these square keys, the epic that somehow

eludes her, the epic that should be written, but is still so off, so weirdly, strangely elusive,

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the epic that cannot, that does not hold up, does not hold up. And who would make

writer’s block a subject matter? Who would turn the constant yelping for words into a

narrative. Stories have to be constructed solidly, to hold up, to weather criticism. The

author ponders, her writing is more solid footedly based in the genre of non-fiction

writing, she learned her craft by churning out essay after essay, she does not come from a

tradition of storytelling. Storytelling, that is what you do when you want to lullaby

children, it does not have this grown-uppy dimension that fits non-fiction writing so

readily. And the author types, types. The word count is 21 000 by now, give or take

some, the font of this text changes automatically to Cambria instead of Times new roman,

something is wrong here, ah, all these machines, all these machines. The author slumbers

away, while typing, she ponders if writers in pre-laptop times were better writers, does

forceful hammering away at the typewriter make for more forceful prose, better words,

more concise sentences, anyhoo, she types, types. Types, against the silence of the

reluctant morning, her words, her words, her words. She ponders, shouldn’t she change

the author’s gender, should she envision a different kind of protagonist, one that has to

solve mysteries, one like superman, one that wears a cape, ah, what, what. No stumbling

poet for this her novel, no struggling poet, worn down by words, no bard that cannot,

cannot. She looks up at the kitchen counter, up from her writing, bananas and oranges in

the brown fruit basket, she feels hungry, but there are words waiting to be put down, put

down on paper, hammered into the squares on the keyboard, ah, she types, and types. Her

story, her nonstory, she wonders, where are her glasses, glasses. In her world, there are

two ways of writing, either one takes a notepad and a pen and roams thru the world,

randomly picking places the world over, mostly coffeeshops, and plunking oneself at

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coffeeshop tables the world over, sitting down , observing, taking notes, notes. That is

one way of doing things, the other way would be to produce a good enough outline and

follow it to a T, she pauses, somehow her description of different writing processes went

terribly off-course, it is that time of the night, when sleeping would be so much better

than all this constant typing, all of this constant typing.

She ponders, sitting at the kitchentable at 4 oclock in the morning, does not seem

conducive for great stories, she piles up the words, but they are all so very reluctant, so

very, very reluctant. And save and spellcheck, for now, for now.

- - -

She finds herself at the computer, again, like so many days before. Upstairs washer and

dryer, rumpling away. She ponders if she started up the dryer, she is not quite sure, and

the washer overnoises the dryer anyways. Sings the loudest, screams the loudest. The

author ponders what to write about. Back to the drawing board, her novel is still in the

planning stage. She had a coffee, in the starbucks on arbutus, the behind-the-counter

ladies still tired, still sleepy, not everyone is a raging insomniac, people like a good

night’s sleep. The author ponders, maybe she should go back to the coffeeshop, there is

nothing to describe here, nothing, nothing. Only the different icons on the

computerscreen, specks of colour, the like, the like. The reflection of the honeypot in the

window, the oranges in the fruitbasket, the darkness outside, the morning that is still

more night than day. Her wordcount is somewhere between 21 000 and 22 000, she

ponders, how many pages are 50 000 words. Ah, math, math. And she types, types.

The flickering light on the radio slash clock slash cd player, she could describe that. All

the inanimate objects around her. Although, technically, the washer and dryer are not

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quiet and inanimate, neither is the clock slash cd player, the author ponders, should she

really describe all these trivial things, is that what she does, documenting the so very very

banal. Is that how one writes a novel, is that how you achieve 50 000 words straight.

There are even more ambitious contests, the 3-day-novelwriting contest, produce 50 000

words on labourdayweekend. She ponders, is this a new phenomenon what with the ease

in writing propelled by computers, no more typing on a roll like in Kerouac’s day. On a

roll, literally. And the author types, types, types. She feels sleepy, only four hours of

sleep, this cannot be good, not that good.

- - -

67 pages already, the typing marches forward, but how many interesting things are there

to write about when you are sitting inside and the keyboard is all that you are looking at.

She types anyways, hopes for the best, but somehow it becomes obvious that amassing

words at random is a futile endeavour. There has to be a plan, a plan, a master plan. Well

crafted characters, dialogue, the like, the like. Drama, the like, the like. A greek tragedy,

the like, the like. Not just descriptions of household appliances, of fruit baskets, of a

honey pot. anyhoo, the day awakens, the trees outside, barren, so very very novemberish.

Vancouver awaits winter, she types and types and types. All thru nano month, all thru this

november. Slowly nexting 22000 words, there is no word called “nexting”. She feels

sick, nauseated, sick from too much typing. Her writing, her writings. Painting seems

like so much more fun, you can move around, writing is too stationary, way, way too

stationary. She ponders if she should rewrite this, if she should seek out an editor, if it is

even worth it, if she should just delete the whole damn thing, her novel, her non-novel.

And she types and types and types. Morning becomes so much clearer, let there be light,

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the day awakens, awakens. Slithering towards 22000, word by word, all these numbers

that govern her writing, a black crow flies by, and she writes and she types. But she said

that already, already. And 22 000 it is. Her laptop is out of battery, so this is it, for now, 4

noW.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

The very tall, very thin woman rushes to the busstop, her grey mane bopping around her

head, she hopes to make it in time to her classroom. Finally she gets to the workshop in

the derelict building on 57 th, opens the door, twenty eyes looking at her, ten students.

The very tall very thin woman takes a gasp, this is what became of her writing career, she

coaches others for money, how to write what to write. She smirks, as if one could teach

writing. You either have it or you don’t,

AND STLL ANOTHER SCENE

The nanomonth writer in her small study, scratching her head, her sketch of the “very tall,

very thin woman” is too dilettante, too pedestrian. The author hates writing, she just types

away to fill the word count requirement, she feels she should go for a walk, fresh air, ah,

fresh air. A tea, maybe, a glimpse out the window of a coffee shop, the sight of

schoolchildren and buses, that should inform her writing, will inform her writing. Will

make her choose the, ah, so perfect sentences, the perfect sequence of words, the

articulate illustration of a thought. That is what she is vying for, vying 4.

AND ANOTHER SCENE, ANOTHER SCENE

A fishmonger in the early morning, - the author tries to figure out how to work a

fishmonger into the fabric of her story, her non-story. Somehow, all her sentences are

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doing their own thing, there is a total meltdown, the story collapses, collapses. Like a

house of cards, this is not how great literature is born, the author ponders, she should go

back to penning grocery lists, that seems to be doable, ever so slightly, ever so slightly.

Tea would be good, a walk would be good, spellcheck and save would be good. Not

necessarily in that order, not necessarily in that order. Her working title at this point is

something about PIXAR, though she is not quite sure how she can rationalize that. At this

point the title has nothing to do with the contents of her story, but that is ok, for now, for

now. Fragmentation is what drives the wordcount ahead, the story has to stay on the

sidelines and watch the words march by, march by. And 22 477 it is, for now, for now,

for now.

- - -

she is sitting once more in the downtown library, she has 51 minutes and 33 seconds left

on her computer, the person next to her is annoying the hell outta her, 'cause he is smelly

and talks to his computer, how can one think under these circumstances, the author types,

types, ponders, she will rename this text, once more, once more, today it is SOME KIND

OF BOREDOM, sounds pretty nice, kind of preempties the premise that books are

boring, boring when compared to films, boring, because not much is happening, though

there is the misconception that thrillers and porn are more interesting than stories

documenting the banal, which is, as stated before, a misconception, she types and types

and types. The library is not exactly a good place to pen one's next masterpiece, a.

because there are time limits to using the computer, b. because the persons at the

computer next to the author might be smelly, c. actually that is about it. But, hey,

masterpieces will be penned anyways, she types, types, types some more, the wordcount

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is 22 600, she types, types, types.

Some kind of boredom, sounds pretty nice, she will stick with that title, well, until the

next reincarnation of the title, “the always in flux title” is better, not that the author really

knows why, anyhoo, she feeds her words to the computer, feeds her words to the

computer. 70 pages, 70 pages.

She ponders, what else is there to write about, she looks up, some more descriptions of

the windows, the buildings, the library, some kind of boredom sets in, it is inevitable,

comes with the job of a writer, producing words, producing words, what kind of job is

that, that? She repeats words at random, after all, she has to reach the 50 000 words mark,

come end of november, who knows why, who knows why? The big red S on the building

outside of the window, the scotiabank S, and she types, types, types.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

In the Richmond library, listening to the kid at the other computer read the text on his

monitor to his friend, it has to do with x-box and games and exotic stuff like that, now he

reads the text about piracy, has to do with playstation 3 and Microsoft and sony, the two

kids are ten or nine, the text should be about legal disclaimers and stuff, the author listens

in to them, but types too, it is very informative, at least that is how it sounds, and one can

let it flow into the NOVEL, the novel that does not really go anywhere. Anyhoo, the

author is happy, she replaced her lost library card and did not have to pay a fine, so this is

good, this is good, after all the woman in vcc asked her not to use the learning center, it is

only for students, not for wood-be-novelists roaming the streets of the lower mainland.

And she types and types and types. Downstairs, in the art gallery, an exhibition is

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mounted, the author knows the artists, who install their work, they were in art school with

her, the author ponders, should she work on her art career or on her writing career, it

doesn’t really matter, they both are going nowhere, nowhere. She sucks equally potently

at writing, at painting, at installation work, at film making. That is how it is that is how it

is. She will end up in retail, that is where artists end up. So she heard, so she heard.

Actors wait on tables, artists sell skirts and socks. So it seems so it seems. And she types,

types, types. Types some more, types some more. 23 038 words, aha, the 23 000 mark is

in the can. She ponders, if IN THE CAN is a bad idiom , a good idiom, did she use it

right, probably not, probably not. She ponders, she ponders. Writes, types. Hates life,

feels like having a new york cheese cake or a blueberry cheesecake, they are sold in the

library lobby, but the tables and seats were kind of weird, one scary guy was sleeping

there, she types and types and types. She will look at the installation in the gallery, it has

this pink paint on the gallery wall, which was really nice, the title was very good, too, it is

more fun to watch artists install their work than it is watching the finished work.

Installations are fun and openings, who cares about art who cares about art. The scene is

good, especially the one of hapless artists. Artists that do not go anywhere, writers that do

not go anywhere. The one who live in the WORK IN PROGRESS state. She has to say

that, once she will have her breakthrough, her tune will change. That is how it is that is

how it is. Herwords, her words, make no sense today, that is how it is how it is. She feels

like barfing, slightly, reluctantly. Another November 19 th, one of many, one of many.

Some kind of boredom, a reluctant title for a reluctant day. She overuses RELUCTANT,

that is how it is that is how it is. And too much of THAT IS HOW IT IS. One day she

will learn how to write articulately, one day, one very happy day. Incoherence rules,

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today, today. On the second floor of the Richmond library, on November nineteen, in

2010.

30 000 words, 30 000 words. Not yet not yet not yet.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

A small bistro, with about seven tables, with green tablecloths, with pretty dainty vases-

the author stops, the scene seems so very artificial. The author looks down at the key

board, she sighs, her writing stalls, seems to be the overriding theme this nanomonth and

she has only eleven days to type in 30 000 words, 3000 words per day, 3000, 3000. It is

too late to fashion a plot, the plot will be all about the writer that struggles with the

words, that types, day-in, day-out, looking at her fingers pushing down the square keys,

that is enough action, the toughness of trying to keep on typing, while there is no really

fascinating subject matter in sight. The author watches the ads on the telly, a woman in

pink sweater, an ameriprise ad, the author is not quite sure what that is about, anyhoo, she

types, types, the wordcount is at 23 507. One of these days she should join the other

nanomonthers, the real ones, the ones that started on november first, the ones who did not

cheat and started in October, and she types, types, types. Looks at the interface of the

word program, she wonders, what she should write about that. On the telly, Anderson

cooper, the author feels sick, too much typing, too much typing. There have to be

interesting tales just waiting to be told, her writing sucks, is borderline boring, this

authordom does go nowhere, nowhere. And she still has to type 30 000 words, she should

be able to finish this by november 30. She could describe the coasterset on the

coffeetable, the mess on the coffeetable, all those documents, all those pieces of paper,

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anyhoo, she types, types, types. Types some more. 23 642 words, the physical act of

typing is exhausting, she sits hunched over her laptop, hammers away at the keyboard,

types and types and types. 23 671 words.

- - -

Seinfeld on tv, the author ponders if she should just document the show, the ads in

between, that is how she could fill the page, how she could fulfill the word requirement.

What kind of concept is it anyways to write 50 000 words in a month without giving

much thought to the quality of the contents of those 50 000 words, a certain amount of

words does not automatically translate into a well-written piece. Or does it? Does the

churning out of a high amount of words make the words become better in the process?

The author keeps on typing, hoping for the best. 23 779. Marching forcefully towards 24

000. She ponders, there is a 3-day-novelcontest, the one that happens each and every

labour weekend. The author looks at her fingers wondering how cramped up they would

get if they have to type that many words over such a short time. Anyhoo, she keeps on

typing, trying to stretch the sentences, pile up as many fillers as she can think of. Maybe

writing fast for 500 words and a nice 20 minute pause after that would, should do the

trick. One has to pace oneself when writing, in the same way that a marathon runner

paces herself, strategizes how to use her energy, writing as sport, writing as sport. The

author tries to follow Seinfeld on the telly, which is kind of tough to do while writing.

While constructing all these sentences, she feels her right hand starting to tingle, typing is

not good on the system, her back is cramping up, and she types, and she types. The

episode on Seinfeld is the one about the fraga machine, what with slippery pete and

Elaine’s aversion to the office birthday parties. Now she is in peterman’s office and eats

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the cake. The author ponders, how many of these Seinfeld episodes has she watched,

again and again and again. Reruns, ah, reruns. Now an ADVIL ad. Watching tv and

writing about it, there is a new genre. She passed 24 000, not bad, not bad. She feels like

a person who knits an extra long shawl, tries to work thru the night in one long knitting

spurt. There is something to say for cumulative effort, the satisfaction of having produced

a new entity of something, anything. Words are non-tactile, but the sheer number of

words make for a strong construct, even if they are not printed out and just floating thru

cyberspace. Ah, and she types, types, types. 24 091 words. Piling up the words, this is

what she does, what she does. A short stop for save and spellcheck, and she types on,

types on.

Now the fight between Seinfeld and the woman in her aubergine dress, and the author

types, types, types. Her shoulders hurt, her right hand hurts, the knuckle near the pinky.

The pinky-knuckle. The author ponders, her sentences are trivial, not good, not good at

all, but who cares. The main objective is to type as many words as possible, as many

many words as humanly possible. And she types and types and types.

24 200, it goes pretty fast. The constant noise on the telly kind of cheers her on to type

more, more, she could go for 25 000. The end of the fraga episode, the truck careening

towards George, Seinfeld, game over. Too many reruns, way too many reruns.

And 24 244 it is. This goes fast, pretty pretty fast.

The author looks at the cluttered coffee table, a milkglass, empty, a salt shaker, some

dirty dishes. She ponders, this is not the stuff that novels are made of, there has to be

suspense, action, the like, the like. There is none none none. Just the mere accumulation

of all these words, all these words. Repetitions make for good writing, so it seems so it

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seems.

She needs 700 words more to pass the 25 000 word mark, which would fulfill half of the

nanomonth requirement. All these numbers by which she measures her words, she does

not really care about quality, she is of the opinion that quantity will automatically

translate into quality. At least that is what she hopes for. The author and her words. What

a weird and strange dynamic. And she types and she types and she types.

Now there is FRASIER on the telly. Not that she hasn’t seen this episode before. Laugh

tracks galore. She looks down at the brown paper basket with the lace border. Her words

are amassing, all these kinds of futile exercises in sentence constructions. And she types

and types and types.

24 445, not bad, not bad. The words might be substandard, but at least they march on and

accumulate. And 24 466 words it is.

She looks up at the flowerpot, the terra cotta one with the green leaves, that is what she

describes here, either the sitcom episodes or the stuff on her coffeetable, the flowerpot

and the paperbasket, there is no plot, none whatsoever, but maybe it will construct itself,

by magic, if one just keeps on typing. She starts staring at the monitor, letters appear like

magic, now a macy’s ad on tv, a woman in a red tight sweater. Talks about American

thanksgiving, which should be one of these days, and she types, types, types. The

wordcount marches forward, and that is all that counts.

It is chilly in here, and she types and types and types.

24 587 words. She rushes her words onto the keyboard, it should be possible to pass the

25 000 mark today. She ponders, tomorrow she should take the bus to UBC, she can use

the computer in the library there, especially if she goes there in time, before the computer

75


room fills up.

Her sentences march forward, nothing but reflections concerning the process of writing

itself. The logistics of writing, the mechanics of typing.

The author ponders, she should pause, she needs only 300 words more, that should be

doable, she types, types, types.

ANOTHER SCENE, ANOTHER SCENE

A writer in a walk-up in some European city, typing away, typing away.


The author is out of words and out of ideas for scenes, she should go back to writing

about art, about art exhibitions, gallery reports, the like, the like. Something footnoted,

something sensical. The first episode of FRASIER is finished, the next one is on. And she

types, types, types. She has 24 755 words. 250 words more, that should be easy, so it

seems, so it seems. The author ponders, maybe she should write a story about a group of

writers, she read a book like that a few months ago, it was really nice and she could not

put it down. There seem to be lots of books like that, describing writers, especially

unsuccessful ones. The author counts her words, she needs 125 more. How did people

write when there was no wordcount icon? And she types, types, types.

Somehow she messes up the wordcount, the little word count number is too small, she

types, types, types. Her hand clamps up, her back is hunched over, but at least the word

count marches forward and that is all that counts.

She could describe the flowerpot once more, the milk glass that is empty, the brown

paper basket. The screen with the word document. She could lament the word count once

more. All her writing seems so very redundant. 80 more words, 80 more words.

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She could make up another scene. On the telly, Frasier and another person are talking

about writing.

The author ponders, there is nothing left to say, nothing and nothing and nothing. This is

how she fills the pages, whining and complaining. Not exactly the most marketable piece

of writing. 40 more words, 40 and she will be done. 15 more, seems doable, seems

doable. 9 more. Her fingers cramp up, so does her neck. And 25003 it is. Time to call it a

day, she weaved enuf words 4 the day.

- - -

Another day in the Richmond library, the author made it thru the snow, somehow ended

up here in front of this very computer, the one with the small sticker that reads BH-DRC-

13. BH should be short for brighouse because this as after all the BRIGHOUSE branch of

the Richmond library system.. The author uses as many words as possible to describe

something, she has to add to the wordcount, thus it is so much better to fill the text up

with a lot of fillers. More adjectives, more verbs, more of everything. More is more, there

have to be produced 50 000 words by the end of November. Bigger tombs, they sure are

better. Especially because nobody really sits down to read them, all of them, all of them,

short attention spans, that is where it’s at. And nobody gets paid for reading, except

maybe interns in publishing houses, and writers themselves. People who have to write

crib notes and the ones who have to fashion book reports. The author types, types.

Somehow this text slithered into a minitreatise, a wanna be treatise on the current state of

publishing and reading and the like, there is a paper in there somewhere, somehow. The

kids next to the author, at the two computer stations to her right are playing some kind of

game, that seems to have a lot of blue and a lot of snowmen, or so it seems, so it seems.

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The library is green now, well, it has green walls to be precise, it used to be different,

there was this long renovation in this place, but somehow it still does not look good, it

looks so very suburban. The author ponders, her choice of words is not good, slightly

offensive, richmonders will not buy her book, but, hey, who will, who will. The author’s

writing seems to be so very substandard, not the right kind of words, not the right kind of

commas, horrendous syntax, that kinda thing, that kind, that kind. Rejection letters,

rejection letters, the writer, the author, living silently in rejection land, the author that

can’t can’t. and she types types types. I think I can, I think I can, well, seems more like I

am sure I can’t. and the day marches forward, snow outside, winter in Vancouver.

Someone laughs in the back, and save and spell check.

The kid next to the author talks to his computer, and she types and she types. Types some

more, how many words, ah, how many words, the laugh in the back, once more, once

more. A very scary laugh, without high notes and low notes, weird and strange. The

author types, types, words and words and words. 25 470 of them. Time to pause this, time

to go to richmond center, time to stand in line at tim hortons, time to have chocolate milk

with whipped cream and little chocolate blocks on it, time to have a triple chocolate

donut, time to clog up those arteries, time to keep triple bypass surgeons in business, a

triple chocolate donut for a triple bypass surgery, and she types, types, types. Her little

booky wook, not as well read as the original booky wook. And she types and types and

types. There are only 37 minutes left on this computer station, she should read thru this,

make some alterations and SAVE, and saVe. A Saturday in November, that is how it is

that is how it is. Nothing special, as of yet, as of yet. Words amassing, amassing. For

now, for now, for noW.

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- - -

and now, in the downtown library, typing, typing. She has a new title for this text: “city,

city”. Now there is a good title, a good enuf title. A title, she can live with. Her fabulous

text, the second one this year, epic # 2. 110 000 words, that can pass as an epic. A meta

narrative. A meta narrative that is thin on story, no storyline, no arc, it is more an

amassment of words. Lots and lots of words. A long anti-narrative. The author ponders,

she has to figure out how to market her stuff. She will, eventually. How tough can it be,

could it be? And she types, types. The person next to her is watching female weight

lifting, and now base-ball. With chinese sub titles. Maybe korean subtitles. He himself

seems to be korean. Some young kid. The author types and types, random observations.

Now it is an indoor handball game on the monitor, and now a bicycle race. A korean flag.

The author ponders, maybe she should look at her own monitor, but nothing is really

happening there, just letters, letters. She looks up, she can see part of the thick concrete

column, she can see the grey pipe above her head. She can see the sign that says

REFERENCE ROOM, and the other one that says REFERENCE SONG BOOKS. And

she types, types. The elevator sings, twice. And she types and types and types. Amasses

words, has 25 883 of them. Her right middle finger is starting to hurt, these writing spurts

are not that good for her hands. How do pianists eleveate carpal tunnel, do they even get

carpal tunnel. The author types, types, how many words, how many, how many? Two

five nine two eight. Sprinting towards the 26 000 mark, word after word after word. She

needs about fifty more, fifty, fifty. Good ones, bad ones, the usual, the usual. Numbers

rule her text, that is why she can refer to it only as text. No genre, none whatsoever. By

virtue of being written in nano month, it could pass as a novel. And eight more words,

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only eight, only eight.and we're there, we're there. No fanfare, no balloons falling down,

but, hey, 26 000 it is nonetheless. Time to save, time to go home. The person next to her

left, threw a chewing gum wrapper onto the ground. And she types and types and types.

- - -

Sunday morning, in front of the telly, she types, types, types. She went thru kerrisdale,

there is roadwork being done on 41st, near the starbucks, the one on the north side of 41

st. the author should learn how to take her laptop with her, fire it up inside a coffeeshop,

should be very easy, the only caveat being is the weather, all these laptops are not water-

proof.

On the telly, Anthony bourdain, the author tries to listen in and to type at the same time,

after all, she has to feed her words to the machine, to the machine. She tries to hold a

conversation while typing, which is kind of tricky, tricky. And she types, types, types.

She looks at the telly, at the brown paperbasket with the white filigree border, she looks

up at the terra cotta flowerpot with the slowly dissipating plant, the one that should be

rescued, somehow, somehow.

And she types, types, her words are kind of stalling, the conversation kind of threw her

off, she tries to digest the conversation which was full of ideas that she is not very

familiar with, business talk, the ubiquitous talk about the recession, and what caused it.

And now, politics, Hillary Clinton, the author types, types. She prefers to type on site, in

a coffeeshop, in a library, but, hey the logistics stand in the way, lots of times. Somehow

the author notices that she is typing herself into a corner, her statements are not that

logical, full of holes, full of obvious logical fallacies. And she types, types, if this was a

hike, one would not stop because one stumbled, that is how writing is, march forward, no

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matter what. The show has to go on, has to, has to. That is how time-based media works,

supposedly, supposedly.

One page already, two more left to be penned. A beer commercial, a THE HARTFORD

commercial, a CONAN ad. The author types, types. Outside the snow, the remnants of

snow, this is what she describes, she stares into space, it is time, to think about a strong

story arc, or/and any story at all. A novel without a story, an anti-narrative extraordinaire.

The author ponders, who says that a book has to have a strong story, all her writing is

about trying to say “hey. I am sorry that this doesn’t have a story”, that is not how you

write, you don’t complain, you don’t explain. Or something like that, and something like

that. The author notices that she is a much better writer, when she is not at home, inside

the house, there are way too many distractions. The telly, other persons, this is not good,

not good. She should take her laptop and make her way to the coffeeshop on arbutus, she

should start writing there, the walk will do her good, she types, types, types. And save,

and spell check, the like, the like. 26 521 words, ah well, ah well.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

The author is till typing, still typing. Propelled by the telly, propelled by the sun that

comes out reluctantly, she types, types. On CNN, ali velshy and a woman who works for

vanity fair and co authored a book about the recession, something with the word “devil”

in the title, “ all the devils are here”, the cover is so very reminiscent of “the devil wears

prada” and it seems that that is the connotation, the exploitation of the theme of GREED,

WALLSTREET, the like, the like, the exploration of the fascination with money, its

potential for corrupting us, the like, the like. The author ponders, something is wrong

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with this picture, publications like vanity fair make their money because of the love/hate

relationship of its readers with POWER, that is how it is, that is how it is. And she types,

and types, and types. Watches her fingers push down the buttons, while the telly roars,

while vancouver marches thru a snowy, still sunny Sunday, and she types, types. Feels

like walking to the coffee sop, have a hot chocolate with whipped cream, let us clog up

those arteries, why not, why not, why not.

- - -


the author in the downtown library, with a purple hat with little beads thereon, this is how

eccentric looks like, she ponders, her writings stall, stall these days, she is checking her

inbox, frantically, each and every agent refuses to take her on, ah, who cares, she will just

send out more queries. In the end, this her writing career will go somewhere, she will just

will it to go somewhere, how tough can it be, how tuf, how tough. She scratches her head

under the purple hat with the colorful beads, apparently, very, so very tuf. Her syntax is

off, she knows that, she types and types and types. Some more words, some more words.

26 873 words, she rushes towards the 27 000 mark. Speeding away, word after word after

word. Some save, some spellcheck, fast pauses, the gasping for air while drowning, fast,

fast, fast. Her words, her words, her words. Too melodramatic, this text, this stupid stupid

text. The text full of glitches, that is how texts are, all of them. And she types, types,

types. 26 937 it is, there is no time to write more, this is it, for today, 4 today.

- - -

Very fast typing, in the art school library, the author ponders, what kind of fucking non-

job is an artstudent? It does not pay, that’s for sure, it doesn’t, doesn’t. Which is what

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defines a non-job, her place in society is non-existent, a non-person, this sucks, sucks.

The market does not value her contributions, markets don’t like artstudents, writers, the

like, the like. Subversive elements that seem seemingly harmless, but that can lash out in

the brink of a sec. She ponders, is that how society sees artist? And what is society and

what is an artist and why is she hovering around the library of her old alma mater, typing

away, typing away, looking over her shoulder if the nice librarian in the green skirt and

the red artsy hair will not ask her to leave, why are you still using our gear, you have

finished your studies, though the piece of paper we gave you is worth nothing, is for the

birds, you can make confetti out of it and walk by false creek and feed it to the seagulls,

hey, and even they have better taste and would not touch it. The author is sitting here, she

wanted to listen in to the lecture of a photojournalist, turns out, it will be in a week from

now, the author hammers away at the key board, people next to her are working on the

display in the vitrine inside the library, stacking up books into the display, books that are

important enuf to be displayed under glass, the author ponders if her own writings are

displayworthy, if they ever will be. Who prescribes displayworthiness to a piece of text,

to a drawing, to a painting, chances are , the artwork is either very pro status –quo or

totally anit- the forces that are in power, it’s the meek voices that nobody hears that get

lost, lost. And, she types, types, anyhoo, anyhoo. And who would use ANYHOO and

who would ask all questions. Time to go down to the market, something laden with sugar,

with grease, should do the trick, should do the trick. Eventually, eventually. The author

feeds some more words to the machine, is reluctant to leave this key board, this is like the

last kisses to a lover, she is going insane her, insane. And 27 321 words it is. For now, for

now, for now.

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- - -

The former art student, now writer, now author. Walked thru the frostiness and coldness

of this late November day, all over Granville island, all over the art school, she ponders if

the words “all over” are correct, if they are accurate. Can one walk all over a building,

which really means “all through” the building, it has the slight connotation of “being all

over”, the former art student, now writer, now author, notices that she just types in

reluctant bull shit, what with the weather being way 2 chilly, what with this, that and the

other. Her writing stalls, freezes, must be the weather, the coldness that stops your breath,

the iciness, icy ness. And she types, types, types. Ponders if she can sell all these words,

if she wants to. She is still waiting for some more rejections in her inbox, literary agents

somewhere in nyc, one person will finally take her on, one will miss the subway stop,

while reading her words. she ponders, ponders, uses the ponder filling as exactly that,

filling. Her words are not good enuf, they never are, stopping mid-air, that is what we do,

what we do. Trying to hide behind ambivalence, gone are the days when ppl marched in

front of a firing squad, baring the breast, yelling, shoot, shoot. Gone are the days when

ppl died for their convictions, whatever they were, and maybe they never really did.

Heroes, so yesterday.

And she types, types, sprinkles her writings with reluctant observations, taking up space

here in the library, she types and types and types. This costs less than renting a studio

space and a storage space, she types, types, her words stored in cyberspace, so much

better than a galleryspace, the art student in winter, she searches for some poetic words,

feels bad, that this beautiful woman looks at the computers, says damn, the author

ponders, maybe she should purchase a community card, she can use the library with that,

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anyhoo, she types and types and types. Types some more, types some more.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

The author is still glued to this very chair, still in the library, she has to produce a certain

amount of words by the end of this month, she might as well type away. The green plant

over the black shelves with the magazines over it, the reflections of the lights on the

ceiling on her key board, there is ample stuff to write about. The upper keys look as if

they are bathed in light, they are not even black, they look like shimmering pools of

water, the author types, types, while watching the keys in awe. Some more words, some

more words, they will come automatically, the noise of the card reader does that to a

writer, the laughs in the back, the typing of other persons, all this reluctant commotion,

the commotion, commotions in a library. She could change the title of this text from “city

city” to library, or library library, the title is in flux, constantly, constantly. Ah, well, @

least we now have 27 857 words, marching strongly towards the 28 000 word mark,

22000 words left to write, she will never be able to finish this by November Thirty, who

cares, cares, cares. And she types, types, types.

- - -

once more back in the library, she is now sitting at the computer facing the wall, two

women are talking fast, in a language the author does not understand, the library is

happening, forcefully, against the coldness outside, the author types fast, under the gun,

her parking pass will expire in 21 minutes, she feeds her words fast, fast, the word count,

ah, the wordcount. 43 words left, sentences, dots, abbreviations, anything will go, should

go. Like a concertpianist klimpering away at the machine, waiting 4 da grande finale, the

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one that never comes, never comes. Twelve more words, twelve more words, some

saving of the file, some spellcheck, spellcheck. Her text is a tad too boring, so she heard,

so she heard. The author passed 28 000, ah, well, ah well. Writing is so very very

annoying, especially if there is no grading involved, no money involved, if it is just a

sisyphean amassment of words, words. This is not how run-of-the-mill poets work, the

author is exhausted, exhausted. Pissed off at the notion of giving it all, she does not think

that art should be given all, it is just some sing-sang to pass the time. We will all die,

anyways, and she has to run because, hey, the parking pass will expire. This is how it is,

that is how it is.

- - -

28 199 words, she ponders if she will pass the 30 000 mark by the end of the evening. On

the telly, CNN, the author watches the screen while typing away, typing away. She could

describe the terra cotta pot with the green plant in it, she should really construct a

narrative worth reading. She should not just type words, concentrating on the number of

words she types. The milk glass on the bookshelf is empty, the brown paperbasket with

the white filigree border is in its usual place, the author notices that her writing is so off,

so very, very off. Time to go back to visual art, time to use a pen and scratch it over

paper, time to pick up a brush and wield it over the canvas. To arrange and rearrange

words to see what comes out, it is a tad too random, too much of a shoot in the dark.

Words as lego blocks, it does not really work. She should write themes on pieces of

paper, throw them in a hat and pick one at random. A mystery story, something,

something. Should be better than looking writer’s block directly into the eye, writer’s

block staring back, stoically. How do you pen 50 000 words when you don’t really have a

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story to tell. The author ponders, she should describe the life of a writer, the words that

refuse to fall into place, the days that are wasted while trying to forge a story, the streets

that are walked up and down, while the story should construct itself, but it does not, does

not. Futile endeavors of an author, the battle with the words, the struggle, the fight. And

then there are those moments where the writing comes so very fluidly, when great word

arrangements flow without even trying, only to be interrupted by long pauses in

creativity, something like that, something of that kind. The author has 28 444 words, ah,

well, ah, well.

She should take her laptop, walk thru the snow, make her way to the next coffee shop and

plant herself behind the next table, start typing, start typing. There is so much to see in a

coffeeshop, enough fodder for writing, enough stuff to describe. Different chairs,

different tables, the layout of the place, the people behind the counter, their conversations

with each other, the people who frequent coffee shops, the ones who try to escape the

silence and quietness at home, who prefer to get their coffees in public places, anyhoo,

the author types, types. And then there are the persons who make coffeeshops their

offices, offices all over town, so much more affordable then having one and the same

office. Anyhoo., she types and types and types. Music on the telly, a kindle ad, the author


- - -


A small bistro in paris, somewhere in the quartier latin, a shy woman with a green-purple

beret sits down, shouts “garcon” and orders “un café de lait, s’il vous plait”. The author

pauses, this is such a cheesy scene, she should stick to less stereotypical writing. She

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should describe the interface of the monitor, the little icons of the Microsoft word

program, the author ponders, why this has always a baby-blue background. And she

types, types, types. 28 675 words, the sentences march forward, march forward. On the

bookshelf, different lexica, the author can see the oxford dictionary of current English, in

front of a webster’s thesaurus. And the empty milkglass is still in its place, so is the

brown paper basket, so is the terra cotta flower pot. Plantpot. The author ponders, she

should take this laptop and sit in the mall, describing people, describing the over-sized

bells, santa and the lines of children waiting in line, there is nothing to describe inside a

small writer’s den. Only the accumulating word count, that’s about it, that’s about it. She

should fashion insightful philosophical stuff, should change the world with a pen, instead

of mechanistically stoically typing a way, typing away. While watching the idiot box. She

could knit instead, knit a shawl, a sweater, while watching tv. There is not really much

difference, not really any difference. That’s why they call it “knitting a yarn”, she pauses,

it is actually called SPINNING A YARN, but who cares who cares who cares. 28 850.

150 to 29 000. The author sighs, she is bored with writing, the narrative is not good, not

good enuf. But she said that already, said that already.

- - -

The author has nothing to say, nothing, nothing. She should pack up her laptop, move to

the kitchen table, maybe there would be a story suddenly fashion itself, by magic, by

magic.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE ANOTHER SCENE

once more, once more. In the downtown library, on the second floor, typing, typing. The

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author never sat at this particular computer, it is as if she is at street level, she can see

cars drive by out of the corner of her eyes, this library seat has a so very urban feel,

because of the cars, the passers-by, the theaters that can be seen from here, looks as if this

is on broadway, though on a broadway here in vancouver, not in the nyc broadway, but,

hey, it is the same everywhere, this might be a very tiny entertainment district, but it still

is one, reminds her of the two pizzerias in new haven and the new havenite who told the

out of towners, this is the little italy of new haven, it is basically a street corner with two

pizzerias, one better one, one less better one, but still very good, so this is the

entertainment district of vancouver, the ford centre that is now called the centre, it

changes all the time, the author is not even sure if it is the former ford center, anyhoo,

she types, types, types. How many words, how many words. The author ponders, she still

has to purchase leggings for her acting gig, which is equally miniscule, it is in the senior

center at the local community center, but the whistles and bells are all there, what lacks in

exposure is made up by theatrical behind the scenes drama and the like, the like. And by

stagefright, utter, debilitating, beak into sweat next to a full-blown heart attack, we can

provide that, can provide that. The author ponders, she will write about that experience,

but not now, not now. She will let it simmer a while, that is how it should be done, should

be done. At one time she will write about the iranian revolution, she lived thru it, so she

could easily write about that. Though time changes your perspective, slightly, ever so

slightly, easier to describe the here and now, though it changes by the time you put it

down on paper, time marches forward, relentlessly, relentlessly. The author ponders, how

much time does she have left on this computer, the library automatically gives you one

more hour, so you can actually book two hours. But there is no time, no time, the author

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parked in oakridge, where she can park for four hours, and she left the fan open at home,

which was not a good idea, this writing stuff is getting exhausting, under the gun under

the gun under the gun. How many words, how many many words. Everything is A

RUSH, EVERYHTING, EVERYTHING. AND CARS DRIVE BY, DRIVE BY. THE

WOMAN NEXT TO THE AUTHOR IS BUSY PLAYING BACKGAMMON ON THE

COMPUTER, THE AUTHOR HAS NO CLUE HOW THAT WORKS, BUT,

ANYHOO, SHE TYPES, TPES, TYPES. TYPES SOME MORE, TYPES SOME

MORE, FAST FEVERISHLY THE LIKE THE LIKE, AND STOP AND PAUSE.

COME UP, 4 AIR, COME UP FOR AIR.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

the library @ two, a person at the other computer, talking cantonese into his cell phone,

some noise behind the shelves, like marbles, the author is not quite sure what kind of

noise it is, anyhoo, she types, types. Today was dentist day, not good for writing, it makes

you feel annoyed, physically unfit for pushing down the keys. There are shelves to be

described here, stacks of reference books, there is the HOW TO PRINT sign, and once

more the ominous marble rolling. There are two globes in the distance, there is the US

History sign and the Central American History sign, ah, the library, the library. There is a

hair in the keyboard, near the M and the comma key, disgusting, disgusting. The author

tries to ignore it, she has to type, type. Once more the marble noise, she types, types,

types. 29 607 words, ah, near to 30 THOU, how nice, how nice. A woman, very

beautiful, all in red, the person next to her slurping coffee or tea, the marbles, the

marbles. The author is losing her marbles, if there ever were some, she types and types

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and types. Woman in red hums, consistently. The hum in the library, the marbles, talking

in the distance. And some more hum, some more hum. The sneakers of the person to her

right, the author ponders, how can she take all these elements and weave it into

something readable, something worth reading, something to buy at the airport for five

bucks, something that will be solidly cemented in the classic section of the barnes and

nobles of tomorrow. And she types and types and types. The humming is driving her

crazy, but not too crazy. Flurries of sanity are still there, still there, remnants of sanity to

be precise. Enough sanity to make her act quasi normal, quantifiably normal, and, hey,

that is all we ask for here. On a day in late november, she types and types and types.

- - -


the author ponders what other scene would be worth describing. She looks up at the EXIT

sign, something is said on the loudspeaker, something on the second floor, where

everybody is welcome, something about science, she types, types, types. Is falling asleep

here, she should have 30 000 by now, she might as well leave, leave. The toothache is

doing her in, her writing stalls, nothing to say nothing to say. She listens to the marbles

rolling, some smell wakes her up, there is a white slow writing marching over the black

monitor next to her, anyhoo, typing, typing, typing it is.

- - -

and fast words and fast words. five thirty in the art school library, it is dark outside, she

has to eat something and then a talk in the south building. but first some more words,

some more words. something intelligent, insightful would be good, especially because

this very computer is the one, that refuses to capitalize the first word in a sentence, that

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one, that one. she knows most of the computers here, that is her job, expert of

idiosyncrasies of computers the lower mainland over, too bad, that it doesn’t pay. then

again, she was assured by painters that writing is so much more cost-efficient than

painting, no studio, no storage, no material. a studio practice without overhead, how nice,

how nice. the prob is that no one wants to take her on, she has to try harder, harder. send

out query after query after query. and if that does not work there is always the option of

self publishing, which usually does not go anywhere what with distribution probs. the

author types, types, against the quiet busyness of the late November library, flurries of

snow, ever so often, anyhoo, she types, types. anyhoo seems to be the theme, the anyhoo

that goes with stuffi-muffi, as comfy as mom-jeans, and she types, and types, and types.

30 092 words, hooray, 30 000 words in two months, somehow her writing tempo is

slowing down, slowing down. slower words, just as good as faster words. she is going

insane, but there is nothing wrong with that, it comes with the territory of writing,

especially writing where everyone refuses to compensate her for her words. the words

that suck, that’s how it is, that is how it is.

- - -

sitting in the downtown library on the fourth floor, she types, types. Falling asleep while

typing this in, still november, still 2010. the words splash onto the key board, fast, fast.

The round sign in the distance, on the wall, still there, still there. A green apple and the

words Find it @ vpl.ca in black type, over the middle of the apple. The author pauses,

ponders, what should she write about that, there is nothing to write about the green apple

and the FIND IT @ VPL.CA. The author just describes it to fill the page, to rush this text

forward, as fast as she can, as fast as she possibly can. Nanomonth is still in full swing,

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20 000 words by the end of november, how hard can it be, how hard, how hard. Like

climbing mount everest, like running a marathon, there is a goal, a goal, a very clear goal,

a top of a mountain, a final line, rush there, rush there. Fill your life with the illusion of

achievement, a book deal might be waiting, something tangible, something, anything. A

certain amount of money, something, something. She feels sick, has enough of writing,

authoring, her words suck, they are not good enough to be fed to the dog. Whatever that

means, whatever that means. She looks around, she should stick to describing the here

and now, the carpet of undefinable color, somewhere between grey and blue and green,

three signs of REFERENCE ROOM, the typing at the other station. And she types, types,

types. And types, types some more. And 30 460 it is.

- - -

ANOTHER SCENE

In the livingroom in her moraga duplex, she sits on the red sofa with the purple stripes,

and types, types. She needs 30 000 more words, she types, types. She watches her fingers

push down the keys, she knows that writers all over the world try to have 50 000 words

by the end of the month. A community of typists, fascinated by the flow of their words.

Or in her case, frustrated to the bones, especially because there is no real plot, only

mechanistical typing, typing. On the telly TWO AND A HALF MEN, outside darkness,

the day reaching into the night.

She is out of words, struggling with her writer’s block, just like all the other

nanomonthers the world over. She will go to the meeting in walnut creek, in the

coffeeshop on north main street. But at this time, it is only her and her typing, her typing.


93


The 21-year old English major, typing, typing.


The author is sitting at her laptop, typing, typing. Trying to envision nanomonthers the

world over, better writers than her, worse writers than her. Writers in different languages,

five of them, on the telly CNN getting ready to talk about the last ten years, a decade and

a WHAT HAPPENED. The author ponders, numbers seem to increment our world, our

way of thinking, and she types, types, types. And 30 672 words it is. For now, for now, 4

NOw.

- - -

And she types and types and types. Repetition of words, repetition of scenes, the author

might as well write the same word 50 000 times. That is what her writing has come to, a

filler-full treatise that is more like doodling, more like training for a marathon, more like

playing an instrument again and again and again, day-in, day-out. The tedium of writing

that is what propels her words forward, the sheer happiness that comes with putting down

a certain amount of words. Which might or might not make sense, might or might not

illustrate grand ideas but which might just as much illustrate the banal, the everyday, the

terra cotta plant pot and the brown paper basket with the filigree border. And she types,

types, types. Marching forcefully forwards to 31 000, and stop, and spellcheck. For now,

for now.

- - -

On the telly, Seinfeld, Seinfeld. The very last episode. Watching tv while typing, the

words march forward, forward.

- - -

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She wakes up in the middle of the night and makes her way to the basement in the attic

and starts typing, typing while watching an infomercial on the telly. Ah, so very

interesting, an ad about THIRTY MINUTE SMILE, which is for a toothbrush that is like

a double tooth brush and brushes the upper part and the lower part of the teeth at the same

time. Very fascinating, just as fascinating as all infomercials are, especially the ones at

three o’clock in the night. Outside the rain is pouring down like crazy, the author types,

types, types. The author, anyauthor. The nanomonth writer that tries to produce word

after word. The author that is not quite sure about her identity or anything, the author who

just automatically feeds her words to the machine, hits word count, is happy that she has

some more words, the author who writes and types, that thinks about doing readings, that

envisions herself on book tours, the author that gives interviews on Charlie rose and larry

king, the author, the author. The author that tries to devise her acceptance speech for

Stockholm, the author, the author. Who is a painter, too and has a studio on main. Her

words suck, but that comes with the territory, what do you really expect from words that

are hurled into cyberspace in the middle of the night,. And she types, types, types.

- - -

And now, CNN. The author has passed the 31 000 word mark, so she is borderline happy.

She wonders if people in Denmark are now wide awake and are typing away fashioning

their fabulous novels, anyhoo, the author types, types. Trying to emulate a different

persona, different personae. She is good at typing, not so good at constructing elaborate

plots, actually, she is not even able to construct very simple plots. Ah, plotwriting, who

knows how that goes. The author comes from a background of writing about art and

architecture, she is an essay writer, not a fiction writer. She footnotes scholarly texts, her

95


forays into fiction land are scarce and sparse, and it shows, it shows. She feels nausea

gripping her by the throat, her word count is at 31 227. And she types and types and

types. Types some more, types some more.

- - -

SOME OTHER SCENE, RELUCTANTLY

The dowdy old woman stops at the Bridgeport sky train station, she walks into the casino

and takes her writings to the foodcourt behind the slot machines and starts writing,

writing. This is not exactly a place where aspiring authors congregate, but the author is of

the opinion that it is good for writing to take her words to untraditional places, the sound

and sights of a casino will automatically make for a fresher, more interesting text. That is

how it seems, how it seems.

- - -


The author thinks about her text, she should find more words, better words. This is her

most weird, most strange, most obscure text to date. Nothing really makes sense, the

protagonist changes constantly, the plotline changes constantly, the location changes

constantly. Well, at least the language stays the same. And she has 31 397 words already.

- - -

On the telly, lots of different stuff, images changing, it is two minutes after four in the

morning, the author slept three or four hours max, insomnia is not good, not that good,

sitting here, so very obsessively hunched over a laptop while hammering away at the

keyboard, that cannot be good, not that good. That is not how masterpieces are fashioned,

this is how substandard, blah writing is produced. There is no inspiration, the muse does

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not live here anymore, it went to Oregon, the author ponders if THE MUSE is male,

female, neuter, who knows, who know who knows. And she types, types, types.

- - -

The author types away, types away. She wants to put in 500 more words, her sentences

should make some sense, the author ponders if she should take up drinking heavily,

apparently that is what writers do, alcoholic daze, alcohol induced stupor that is what

drives good novels forward, heavy drinkers that is what writers are, after all they have to

kill time between writing stints. And the author types, types, types. Maybe she is not that

good a writer, not that prolific a writer. And it seems, that male writers are more prone to

substance abuse than females, maybe because they want to counteract the image of a

wuss which is what a writer is, not that alpha-maleish a vocation as others, the author

ponders, types and types and types.

- - -

400 more words, 400 words. The author types away, she watches CNN while typing, she

looks at the brown paperbasket with the filigree border, she looks over at the terra cotta

flower plant and once more down at the keyboard, typing, typing, pressing letter after

letter, fast, fast, fast. She needs 300 more words, she tries to figure out how many words

are there in an average sentence. How many letters. She should strategize a tad more,

have an outline, a blue print, instead of just sitting at the computer and start typing. No

writer’s block for her, a keyboard is just waiting for input, a blank page wishes for

writing , and she types and types and types. Types her days away, that is what she does,

what she does. She tries to longwind each and every sentence, she needs 200 more words,

and pause, and spellcheck, spell check. And save and save.

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- - -

Three more pages, she wants to have 100 pages, even if her fingers cramp up, lock up,

even if her shoulders, her back hurt, even if the bump on her left forehead starts annoying

the hell outta here, somehow all her aches and pains get aggravated because of her

obsessive typing, she concentrates on these her aches, she types and types and types, in

this artificial space, where there is constant noise pollution, constant image change on the

idiot box. Typing while being bombarded by the telly, this better be good, better be good.

- - -

The author ponders about the title of this her text, she first called it MUSE, then it

changes to NOT A FILMMAKER, then to CITY CITY, and there were numerous other

incarnations of the same title, she types away, types away, she knows that these are all

good enuf titles, there is no title that is necessarily better than the other, she knows that

she will come to the semi-perfect title by accident, while roaming the streets of

vancouver, that is how it is, that is how it is. A story fashions itself very organically, the

physical exercise of walking helps, even doing dishes, movement is good, it translates

into good words hammered down into the key board, that is how it seems, how it seems.

And she types, types, types. 32 022, 32 027 words.

- - -

It is now 4:40 in the morning. On the telly, sanjay gupta talking about concussions, the

author feels kind of queasy by the documentary about brain injuries, she’d rather listen to

something more happy, anyhoo, she types and types and types. Looks at the brown paper

basket, a fast glance, and she types and types and types.

- - -

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Top of page 99, she will just keep on typing, will hit page 100, she types, types, types.

- - -

It is now 4:48, the author types away, types away. She should staccato this her text with

the ANOTHER SCENE parts, trying to construct, well, exactly that, powerful scenes. Or

more blah scenes. The author ponders, that does not seem to be the strong side of her

writing, her scenes are usually too bare, too stripped to the bones, not multi-layered

enough. She should enroll in a writing class, a story writing class, she has to learn how to

construct perfect story arcs, she ponders, if there is really something like that, a perfect

story arc, it is not a building, she cannot measure the accuracy of the lines, besides, a

certain outta kilterness should be good, should be good. The author struggles with her

words, it is that time of the day, that time of the night, she should go and catch some z’s ,

so to speak, she should roll back into bed, should do this, that or the other, but first

typing, typing, typing. The sentences are a tad too fragmented, not clear enuf, if this was

a scholarly fact-based text, things would be easier, so much easier. She watches the telly,

goes to THE EXPRESS, which is a local show that showcases local events, and she

types, types, while watching the telly, there should be Saturday cartoons, somewhere,

anyhoo, she types, types, types. Types some more, types some. Her neck hurts, her back,

and her right hand is cramping up, this is how it is, this is how it is. And SAVE and

SPELLCHECK, not necessarily in that order.

- - -

And now, golden girls on tv, she types, types, types, while trying to follow the storyline,

while typing, typing, typing. She is at the bottom of page 99, so she has to keep on

typing, until she finishes page 100, would be nice to have 100 pages in two months,

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hopefully she will shake the pages and all the words will fall magically into place, would

be nice, would be nice. And she types and types and types.

- - -

It is now five oh nine. Still golden girls, she types, types, types.

- - -

Five twenty five. And 32 479 words and 100 pages. So many numbers so many numbers.

Words measured in numbers. And she types, types. Hopes for the best, fears for the

words. Her words are still so very dilettante, they refuse to fall into place.

The terracotta flower pot, the theme from GOLDEN GIRLS, the brown paper basket with

the filigree border, another GOLDEN GIRLS episode, it is as if twenty years have not

happened, she types and types and types. Some more words, some more words.

- - -

An ad on tv, colourful images, she types, types. Her neck feels stiff, she tries to tilt it, to

the right, to the left. Blanche debereaux in the kitchen, the author types, types. Should do

the ANOTHER SCENE again, but somehow the ANTHER SCENE spiel is wearing thin.

- - -

Dorothy spornak, in a chucky cheese like place, her birthday party, it is kind of funny, the

author ponders how to watch a cheesy sitcom while trying to produce literature, while

listening to the clown and his talks about haha burgers, the author types, types, types. In

the end a kid pushes a pie into the annoying clown’s face and says HAPPY Birthday to

Dorothy, it is a very sweet scene, anyhoo, the author types, types, types. 32 692 words,

she ponders if she can make 33 000 by the end of the hour, she keeps on typing, keeps on

typing, keeps on typing.

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- - -

The author keeps on typing, while looking at the telly, she could whine some more about

how she is out of words and how she hates sitting hunched over the laptop, but she hates

the negativity of these her words, she should write about more pressing issues, make a

point, write with conviction, she should elevate her writing, something like that,

something of that kind. She needs 200 words more.

- - -

And another scene would be good now, but somehow she fells like just hammering in

some more words, some more slightly off sentences, that walk slowly and silently over

the page, hunched over, only to start galloping pretty fast, so she types, types, types.

Wordcounting while typing, she needs 160 more words, that should be doable, doable,

her words are so utterly boring, on a morning in late november, and golden girls is still on

the telly, the telly.

- - -

140 more words, she had enough of describing the shows on the telly, the interface on the

laptop, the paper basket, the flowerpot, writing is so boring, so boring, so very, very

sedentary. Painting would be good, more expressive, grand gestures with a dripping

paintbrush, should be fun, fun. To have a studio on the eastside of town, a nice loft with

high ceilings, she will do that, eventually, eventually. But @ this point in time, words

have to suffice, suffice. She needs 40 more words, she types, types, types.

- - -

It is three minutes after six, this is how she spent her night, typing away, typing away.

The stereotype of the strange crazy artist is alive and well, so it seems, so it seems. And

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33 007 words it is. And save, spellcheck, the like, the like.

- - -

back in the art school library, she is sitting @ the computer that faces the wall, the one at

the edge of the other computers, the one near the white wall. She types, types, slightly

uncoordinated, her head is swimming, she went to the eastside cultural crawl, which has

400 artists in it, lots of studios, all over the bad part of town, at least that is what it was

called in one review. The idea is that if you have your studio in a less expensive area of

town, the art will be better. If you slum it, you become a genius, automatically. But that is

not it, the author is kind of afraid of too much closeness, she needs to hear herself think,

she does not really need community for art making, she needs solitude and isolation. This

computer, this typewriter gives her that solitude, automatically, it is just her and the

computer, just her and her words. The author ponders if she uses the right kind of

possessive pronoun, and actually HER is not necessarily a possessive pronoun in this

context, the author sighs, writing is tuf, tough. Syntax, grammar, huh, the day moves

forward, forward, the woman at the slide light table sneezes, once, twice. The author

types and types and types. Ponders, if she should take out slides and put them on the light

table, she is not a student here, she can just imposter, ah, my whole life is a lie, some line

from SEINFELD. I am living a lie, fake it till yer make it, anyhoo, writer writes and types

and writes. Typing begets writing, roll over, capote, what do you know? And she types,

types, types. Her words stink, here, on a Monday morning in late late November of 2010.

- - -

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sleepy author on monday morning

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