writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2013

Writers have boring lives. That is a given. If they had interesting lives, they would be busy living their interesting lives instead of hammering away at the keyboard. Yep, that is how it is. Her insights are bla as always, bla in a sleepy way that goes with the sleepiness of her life. The sleepiness of this generic Saturday morning. In a generic city, in a generic time. She is one of seven billion, give or take some. An ant on some planet hurling thru space. She has her laptop, so much she knows. She watches her fingertops push down the black squares of the laptop, she is not quite sure why the S has lost the upper curve of its inscript, does she really use that many Ss? Maybe the laptop company fabricated a defect S-button. Yup, that must be it. Her day went uneventful, she went to two different malls, she took the Canada Line and the Skytrain, she watched the people on the trains and in the malls, she tried to be discreet, you have to stare discreetly, you can stare at the accessories, shoes, bikes, purses, suitcases, as a writer you are always looking for inspiration. Whatever inspiration is. One per cent, apparently, the antidote to ninety-nine percent of human sweat. She has three paragraphs already, 216 words, this is the start of her new book, one of many. She tends to write about five books per year, she never lands a publishing deal. Despair is what characterizes her writing, the moldy reek of utter desperation. Writers gotta be published, apparently, apparently.