100035455 the Written Word

the written word

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

She runs after the bus, barely makes it. Her writing under her arm, she ponders, a usb-stick should do. She likes sheets of paper, tactility. She can take them on the bus, sift through them. She can sit in her attic and bunch them together and throw them into the black paper basket. Not that she writes in an attic, not that she has a black paper basket. She changes her spot, from the green sofa to the green chair. On the telly, some spy movie. She watched Alfred Hitchcock, THE BIRDS, they changed the black and white, the movie was in colour. Not your father’s birds. She feels sick, the Big Mac did her in. So this is how writing feels like. You hurl words at your laptop, they either stick or they don’t. She lost the thread of the woman running after the bus. They say, you should write about things you know or about things you do not know. There are as many maxims as there are writers. The dishes in the sink dry up, silently, quietly. She is out of words, for now and for now and for now and for now and for now. And 199 words we have here, have here, we have here. ----------------------------------------On the telly, Seinfeld. The Chinese restaurant story, it is the part where Elaine is trying to bribe the maître d. and where she fails miserably. Ah, laughtracks, laughtracks. What a sorry

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the written word

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

exhibition that was. Is there anything more blissful than listening to Seinfeld four. So, when are we going to eat, five, ten minutes. The written word, ah, the written word. The author ponders, should she really start another long long writing tour, type each and every day until she is at 100 000 words. You are not Cartwright of course I am not Cartwright. Seinfeld four, Seinfeld four. The author ponders, non-seinfeldians need not apply, will not get it, get it. 325. 325 of 100 000. Maybe she should be part of a meet up-group or something. This is her fourth novel, yuh, yuh. Her writing is deteriorating, which is fine, the best texts are never published. Those are the ones that rot away in sock drawers, the bestest words of humanity. The ones that vie for publishing, the ones that never ever see the light of day. Those ones, those ones, those ones. The nonfragmented sentences, the eloquent ones, those ones, those ones, those ones, ah, those ones. ----------------------------------

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