writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2013

Day 1 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 S’s? 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. Day 2

1

writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2013

She ponders. She looks at the grey women, they are all grey-ish, not age-wise, but attire-wise. Grey sweats, grey T-shirts. The hair up-kempt, they must be the Oregon-class, the Eugene-class. Or something, something, something. Seems, her writing is off today, off, before it even started. She is wide awake since 4 in the morning, she had a coffee in the coffee shop on Arbutus, they were still putting the chairs out, she went downtown, she went uptown, she waited in front of the library of the art school, until she could finally get in and start to type. Yup, writing, writing, these are her reflections on writing. Others have done this before, better - much, much better. Voices of authority. She ponders, hers is no voice of authority, not yet, not yet. Landing a publishing contract, that will give yer authority. Or maybe not. Who knows, ah, who knows? She has 417 words, this text should have 100 000 words, to fit nicely into the book-to-be-published category. Genre is not that important, nah, length is what makes for a good read, a publishable read. People in the library talk, the ocean-factory is reluctantly majestic. A book cart roars in the back, someone laughs in a hissingish manner. The day is pretty grey, a grey and overcast Monday morning. Grey in a happy way. Grey-ness in August, well, much better than heat in August. Freshness, coldness, and the sun coming up behind the clouds. 510 words - FIVE ONE OH. She ponders if she should cut this text up, in order to make it more palpable. Ah, her writing, ah, her shitty writing. Full of whining, full of hate towards the field. She trained as a visual artist, supposedly, how can you possibly become a good writer, when you come from the world of forms and shapes and lines? She ponders, are writers who went through rigorous writing training better, worse? The Bennington-crowd, the Columbia-crowd? A black bird flutters by, in the sky, against the stark

2

writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2013

white, that is illuminated by the light of the sun behind the clouds. Her writing is non-concise, too inaccurate. Stabs at reality, in a hit-and-miss fashion. Precise wordings, so elusive, elusive, elusive. She has 639 words, great, she ponders, if she can describe her writingish day-ins and day-outs for 300 pages, who would read this, who, who? There has to be a car chase, something borderline 007-ish, love, S-E-X, the like, the like. Antagonists en masse, protagonists en masse. There has to be a message, political or other. Any message should do. A moral high-ground or a moral low-gound, whichever, whichever. Either corrupt the youth or teach ‘em something. And at least make it grammatically correct, at least, at least, at the very, very least. Stay away from repetitions, stop counting all these words. Join a writing group, writers roam the world in hordes. She ponders, where is the next Meet-Up-meeting? How many more days to Nano-Month, ah, writing, ah, writing. She hacks her sentences into fragments, while she kind of ogles the scary person, who laughs and talks to himself, he is pretty heavyset, he left the library, relief sets in. 797 words, ten in the morning, the sound of the AC, deafening, ah, deafening.

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