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I recently decided to pack away the figurative typewriter and be done with my ambitions regarding the printed word. For various reasons, the spirit no longer moved me and I wanted to shake the dirt off my hands. And now I have begun working on two novels that both take place in Thailand. Egads. Why? I can’t possibly imagine. My reasons for quitting are still lurking but like a dynamo in a perpetual motion machine, I simply can’t stop. I am filling pages almost begrudgingly, but there it is. Even returning to the blank blogosphere is against all intuition and befuddles me. Now, if I can just eek some quality into this material, all will be interesting. But I am not holding out too much hope.
So that’s a day gone in the already failed experiment of writing, the simple act of characters covering a small, empty space. But what is a day? A bouquet of seaweed a snatch of crinoline that the earth or the wind lend and then retrieve.
The texture of a day, determined whimsically by fate, fortune or biology. And the sum is never a measure of its parts. Dissemble a day. The shit day. But was there a smile or a glimmer that the day would not conspire against you. The day is silk or sandpaper as it falls into the dustbin of nothingness, let’s call it history. And that is all we know of it. And we are so often wrong about so many things.
Write every day, eh? That is what they keep saying. It is supposed to help me somehow. My notion was to gather enough living material to make my writing noteworthy before sitting down to the blank page. It wasn’t really my intention to become famous after I was dead so much as to write after I was dead. Alas.
But, OK, if I must write everyday to silence, satisfy and quell the reprimanding voices from the ether and my head, sobeit, that is what I shall do. And today’s subject was easy. Tomorrow may be another story. Something about automatic responses? Existential unease in the digital age? Existential unease in any age? The annoyance of a litany of questions? Child brides?