the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

January 31, February 1st ,Vancouver 2012. It is wet outside. The writer scratches her hair, her head. The phrase “it is wet outside” is not very accurate, “it is drizzling” would be better. She looks down at her umbrella on the moss-green floor, she has to tilt her chair to see it. The writer is back in the library of the community college on 49th, she is once more typing, typing. She is once more starting the great American novel, which is, technically spoken, the wrong term, she is not American, this is not a novel. Voices in the back, today is January 31st. The year? 2012. She still makes mistakes, writes 2011 instead of 2012. Old age, old age. She is 56 going on 57, it does not really make any difference, she could be 10, she could be 90. She was born old, that is what happens with the all-American female nerd. The term all-American, once more wrong, once more wrong. Author ponders, she has it all wrong. She is utterly confused and it shows in her writing. That is why she is unpublished, despite a superprolific output, the words are all incoherent, the sentences fragmented. She is not able to hang on to a thought, that is what happens when you watch too much TV. Short attentionspan, short attention span, bold and beautiful did you in, did you in. ah, the memories of a couch potato, how is that for a booktitle? She could title this text like that, she could start querying agents, she always does that, always, always, always. Her queries sail thru cyberspace, fifty already in January, that is how it is, that is how it is. The writer- the next day. She is sitting in UBC, the University of British Columbia, in the most awkward chair there is. How can you type, if you are in an arm chair, where did they find this chair? Yes, it is a library, but, hey, you cannot just take all the readingish, comfy armchairs and put them in front of computers, that a computerlab don’t make. Author/writer here pauses, her syntax is slightly off, maybe it could soldier on as stylistic idiosyncrasy, who knows, who knows? She types fast and furious, she has sent out 50 queries in 30 days, all through January of 2012. it is 1

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

now, February first, she still has no publisher, no agent. She lives her life agentless, which is ok, there are more pressing, more awful things. A free-lancing writer, that is what she is. Now. Unpublished, too. But, hey, she will be published, eventually. If you build it they will come, can the movie be wrong? Let us just keep on building, better than being shoved into an insane asylum. If you don’t write you go insane, that is how hard your passion for writing burns. Your wish your want for the process of creating something, anything. Obviously, you could cook or clean, but, apparently, women of a certain age run away from their domestic duties. So her prof posited last year, the writer is a writer, not a housewife anymore, not a homemaker, not, not. Not that a writer is not some kind of glorified housewife, not that, not that. Author here ponders, her insights are smashing, they always are, always are. She should go back to poetry, to animation, to painting, to something, something. There has to be more than one person in this book. There have to be players, characters. The man to her right, or is it her left, is pretty good, he has curly hair and looks at his monitor, while having his head lean into his left hand. He is pensive, maybe, though he might be a regular facebook stalker. Ah, mark zuckerberg, look what you’ve started, and your company is going public these days. Author here ponders, if she should somehow tie this in with palo alto, but she is distracted by the woman in the far who is turning her pencil; around. By the high ceilings here. Ah, the writer, not able to hold on to any congruent thought, and she is not able to decipher what CONGRUENT means. She just types and types and types and types away. She has 703 words, so is that enough for a start, a start of a 100 000 word novel, one that is lacking a plot , a character, one that is so very very plotless. Storyarc, schmoryarc. The writer ponders, she should join a meetup group for writers, that should be fun fun. Critiques that smash you, make you wither away under the barrage of influxing negativity, she has enough e-rejections already. At least 300 of them, 300, 300. and our 2

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

writer here, types, types, types, types some more. And stop, and spellcheck, spellcheck. (802 words). She leans back in the arm chair, her first bout of spellchecking is over. What now, what next. What next? The writer ponders if she should put commas where they belong, question marks where they belong, should she, should she, or should she forego orthographical conventions in order to make the text more lively. What should she do, should she close her eyes and fashion a character, a male one, to opposite her female protagonist aka THE WRITER. Should she name the characters, should she make a little maquette with CHARACTER A, CHARACTER B, CHARACTER C. and what would the plot be? The subject matter? The writer scratches her head, the subject matter should be, what else, writing. Yay for writing. She should fashion a story about different hapless writers who try to publish their books but do not find a publisher. The after November nano crowd. Nano stands for National Novel Writing Month, the writer ponders how she should infuse her explanations eloquently, is there even a way to do this, how can you do that? Should you even explain stuff, in the time of google, readers can easily look up stuff, they can they should. Writing these days, ah, publishing these days. What with cyberspace, there are a lot of polemics to analyze, and author is not quite sure, if she used the word POLEMICS in the right way, the right way. She is hunched over, typing typing, her next all-Canadian novel is taking form, taking form. All-American, allCanadian, all- Italian. All-earthy. She scratches her head, she could make this story all about identity crises, not that she cares one way or another. That is not her target-audience, people that are hung up on racism, then again, she could go the seinfeldian way and insult all ethnic groups, no discrimination, none and none and none. She ponders, ponders, ponders. The room here is nice, she is out of words, has no plot no plot no plot. Somehow she skeetered off-course, has to rewrite this, rewrite this. She could, should rename this text, re-title it. THE WRITER or SEINFELD MADE 3

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

ME DO IT. Huh, huh? That is quite a catchy title, people will pick it up like warm buns, all the bibliophiles in Powell’s, Portland, the ones that hover around St. Marks Bookshop, before it is eaten up by Cooper Union. How to write a novel how to write a novel how to write a novel. Hmmm, and we have 1217 words here, not bad, how did writers write in the olden times, before word count buttons, how and how and how? The writer looks at the monitors of the people next to her, one is an aspiring doctor, one is an aspiring Francophile. Fast forward forty years, a guy in a white coat, with glasses and beard, one a grandma. Things never change, now do they do they? And we type and type and type ourselves into oblivion, ah, oblivion. -------------------------------------------THE WRITER OF THE 21ST CENTURY NOVEL- she kind of likes this title, seems, she changes the title every two seconds, the title evolves organically, that is how she will explain it to Charlie Rose, if and when he is asking. She will wear a red hat on the show, the reason is, of course, because a woman in a red, asymmetric hat sat down in front of the computer opposite of her, her hat is kinda weird, the writer should take a photo, there are not enough words in the English language or any language for that matter to describe that hat. Weird is a good word, it sums up that particular hat. The writer spent her minutes by researching industry news, publishers weekly, galleycat, new york times articles, the website of farrar geroux straus, whatever, the most fascinating article she came upon was a description of a writer who goes to the athenaeum each and every day, apparently that is a library in boston, and types his texts, his texts. Author, writer ponders, she will do the same, 4

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

she will get a communitycard for 100 bucks and come here, each and every day and type up all her masterpieces, all thoses great books books. All her novels, her works of fiction, she will fashion the persona of THE WRITER, she will will will. What with cocaine habit or drunken stupor, what with pearls and pink cardigans, grandma writer or seafaring, bearded adventurer, anyarchetype will do, should do. The persona of a writer, can change in seconds, seconds. Listening in to the muse, whatever she is, wherever she is. And, hey, it is pretty debatable if she is a he or a she. Apparently, there was a film called THE MUSE, with Sharon Stone, but, hey, we digress, digress. And we type and type and type. There should be another character in this book. Not just the WRITER. Another writer, maybe, a male one. One that sits in the cafeteria one stock below this one. Has a soggy sandwich in his hand, bites on it, washes it down with cold chamomile tea. The WRITER, the original one, the one of this text, the female one, scratches her head, somehow, a guy drinking chamomile tea is a kinda wonky type, an unbelievable character, male characters have to have muscles and extra testosterone, or else, or else. She foregoes the task of creating another character, she seems to be not good at this, she’d rather write about herself, about this room, maybe, on the second floor of the Barber Learning Center, in UBC, it could be the third floor, people have come and gone, she is still typing here, typing here. It is 2:42, still February first, still 2012. Her words accumulate, which is good, the manuscript marches forward, forward. Manuscripts don’t march forward, you idiot, idiot. Somehow, the writer notices that she is going arguably insane, but that is fine fine fine. She is losing it ever so slightly, must be this arm chair, must be the noise in the back, must be, must be. This room is spectacular, you should really come and see it, next time you are in the city, yep, why not why not why not. Author slash writer ponders, it does not help that she starts surfing the web in between writing 5

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

spurts. But, whatever, we are on top of page six here, this could be her new novel writing month, 50 000 words, maybe, 100 000 in February February. And we type and type and type. Type type type. Type. 1892 words it is, it is. On February first of the year 2012. her insightless ramblings, the drivel poured onto the keyboard, ah, let us write and write and write. And write write write. ----------------------------------------------------------and what happened while we were typing away, what nugget of news did we stumble upon, while uploading our great masterpiece here. Yep, facebook went public, well, not quite, they filed for going public, biggest IPO ever, the author slash writer is not quite sure of the correct terms, anyhoo, FACEBOOK GOING PUBLIC, while we are composing our lowly little new novel here. She scratches her head, is not quite sure, how to incorporate that news into the fabric of this book, ah, who knows and knows and knows. We have 2000 words here, and that is all that counts that counts that counts. -----------------------------------------Shit that WRITERS say, shit writers say, there is a good title, especially ‘cause the world is awash with you tube movies, of the “shit- fill in the blank-say”-kind. Last year, everything was OCCUPY this, OCCUPY that, this year it is SHIT so-and-so says, so-and-so say. Sign of the times. THE WRITER scratches her head, her writing sucks, ah, sign of the times, sign of the times. She used to be good at writing, utterly eloquent, those days are over, over. She watches NEW ADVENTURES OF OLD CHRISTINE-reruns on the green couch, this cannot be enough fodder for a novel. Watching TV as plotline. That should work, has to, has to. ----------------------------

6

the writer February second

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

and we are at it again. Writing, fast, furiously. Without a plot, but, hey, that is how it is how it is. It is what it is. Nice, that one can fill the air with platitudes when one has nothing to say. Fillers, fillers. Hey, you cannot be profound all the time, there is ample space for banal observations, clichés, the like the like the like. Hooray 4 repetitions. For terms like lol. Testing, s-e-x-ting. Yesterday facebook filed for getting public. But we said that already, already. The US wages war, wherever she can. Yep, still the same, still the same. Same old same old same old. Author here ponders if she should wage a flaming pen like a sword against the atrocities of this world. In short, if she should write political stuff. If that is her mission. Nope, she writes in the same way a plumber changes the plumbing of a house. Art as craft, writing as function. Something like that, something of that kind. Author here sits in her old alma mater, the art school that gave her a certificate, spat her out and said: well, now you are on your own. Sink or swim, sink or swim. Well, she basically works on her sinking skill, as seems to be the case for all of the 300 and something creatures that sailed over the stage in may of 2010. We are not tomorrow’s twenty under forty, not tomorrow’s twenty over sixty. We are bad artists, bad film makers, bad writers. In her case, very very very bad writers. Yep, the days of a writer, her syntax, her grammar, her choice of words, wonky as always, ah, to be able to write outta kilter outta kilter. the fumes from the ocean factory, like always, like always. Author ponders, she should annotate her writings, no one will understand her non-footnoted waxing, ah, to write to write to write. Whining as art form, how do you do that, do that. Eloquent whining, an art form in itself, in itself. 2484 words, aha, not bad and bad and bad. -----------------------------------------------------------------------

7

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

Still sitting in the same seat, slight headachy pangs, still typing, fast, furiously, fast, furiously. Skimming the internet, so much to see, so many films, who has the time, who has the time. Apparently, author here has the time, it is really nice that a person refers to herself as “author here”, “author here” instead of “I”, the third person instead of the first person. Kind of like George Costanza referring to himself as “George” and author here is losing it, ever so slightly ever so slightly. This is what her life has come to, this is what she has sunk to, hovering around the library, typing up semi-strange passages, trying to convince herself that this is literature. There are two journals in her basement waiting to be transcribed, which seems to be writerspeak for typing it up, anyhoo, she is shopping her manuscripts around, which is another talking- shoppish term she picked up. Ah, to be a poet a poet a poet. And what is the dif, between poet and writer, how does this work how how how. Outside, still the oceanfactory. Inside here, slight toastiness, she is hungry, she is, she is. She fragments all these words into the keyboard, one letter at a time, one letter, one letter. 2707, hmm. We are marching forward, maybe she will make it to five thousand, come midnight, come midnight. Ah to type to type to type to type. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------Still sitting in the same place, still typing typing typing typing. There is the clickerclacker of other typewriters, the laughs in the back, the noise of the cardreader to her left. Librarians wondering why she is here, there is the steam from the oceanfactory. Author here ponders, she should fashion the persona of a researcher for herself, have books near to the computerstation, wear glasses, scratch her head more often. Well, at least she is wearing a black quasi-turtleneck, in black a la Juliette Greco, she is having her hair in a bun, a la anylibrarian, she ponders, does she have a

8

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

serious face, enough wrinkles, the right aura of unisexness, yep, we can muster that, muster that. And she types, types types. She will have her stuff published eventually eventually. She teeters somewhere between fiction and non-fiction, she is losing it losing it. Melancholia sets in, dumbness, the like, the like. Stupidity, there for the measuring, there for the measuring. Her writing does not really make sense, coherence, ah, so yesterday so yesterday. Steam from the ocean factory, lots of it, lots, lots. She should have brie and a beret, somehow, that is more artistic than just sitting here and shivering. 2990 words, the little icon is not really visible, too tiny, 2 tiny. And we type and type and type. Author here just looked through announcements of writer residencies, somehow, she does not feel like applying for one. They are all kinda shifty, they have not much to do with writing, they have to do with leaving your place and venturing out into the world. They are slightly on the adventurous side, we do not need that don’t need that. Writing is about a room of her own, it is about a computer of her own. And in her case it is about sitting at one of the free computers in town, in one of the many many libraries. You can put your stuff in cyberspace, archive it in the clouds in the clouds. A writer in the clouds, ah, shit that writesr say, writers say writers say. 3000 words, and then some and then some and then some. Let’s stop this now, let’s take our left hand and slide it over the black keyboard, like a pianist in a grand gesture, like rose in the golden girls, yep, that way that way that way. Author here could care less that her connotations are silly and dull, coherence does not live here anymore anymore anymore. Shit writers say, yep, author here sure is good at bullshitting, that is how it is how it is how it is. And we still have no plot no plot no plot. ----------------------------------------------------------------------and let's retitle this to “painter writer animator”. Sounds slightly catchy, but, like always, there is a dilemma, should the words be followed by a comma, should there be three words and two 9

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

commas, should the words be capitalized or not, or some of them, should it be this way, that way or the other. Author here is now sitting in the downtown library, the person next to her watches youtube videos and chuckles, or maybe facebook videos, he has something that says MOST POPULAR VIDEOS, see, there is a lot to see, when you walk through this city, there is a lot to observe and a lot to document. And you thought that this text has no plot, ah, you just venture out into the world, you will start writing, writing. Author here ponders if she should rent a studio on main and start throwing paint at canvasses, after all, she studied painting and animation, animation is more fun, but watching the films on the monitor next to her is fun, too, all the films are comical and funny. Author scratches her head, well, she would, if her glasses were not in the way, she missed big bang theory, and, furthermore, she missed the new adventures of old christine, she will make it in time home for king of queens, the office and two and a half men, in the night, there will be seinfeld and frasier. Ssomehow these are not the pursuits of a literary giant, thus, maybe, she is not a literary giant after all. What is the female form of GIANT? Giantess? And we type and type and type. Person next to her chuckles, author has to laugh, too, while typing, they say, laughter is contagious, yep, that is how it is how it is. And we have approximately 3500 words here, not bad, not bad, not bad. Heap on the words, she ponders, why she is so congratulatory. And stop and spellcheck, spellcheck. ----------------------------------------------------------must be February three. Sitting in the oakridge library, for a change, for a change. The writer cozies up to all the different libraries in the Lower Mainland, each equipped with well-tuned computers waiting for her input. At this speed, she can produce 600 000 words per year, give or take, 6 million words in ten years. 10

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

George Orwell just produced a million words, she read that somewhere, she ponders if the amount of words put down on paper has anything to do with the quality of the words. She ponders if it would be better to type 100 words per minute, to be a fluent ten finger typer, or if her peck and choose method will garner equally valid results. This is what writers think about, yep, not subject matter, plot, the like, the like. They stalk their agents on twitter, and if they do not have an agent they stalk their potential agents. Thus, they know who drank too much on a friday night, who went to the hamptons, who has a crush on who. Some young folks in new york city that hold her destiny in their collective hands. Writer here ponders if she should become an agent herself, she just might put a shingle outside her bathroom door. Writer as agent, book sold by owner. Usually, properties sold by owner do not sell, but, hey, this is a recession, real estate bubble, foreclosures, freddie and mac, everything goes everything everything. Her marketing plan, her marketing plan. These days she studies the bookmarket more than she writes, she reads books like the discussion between umberto eco and some french guy about the future of books, umberto states posits claims that books will never go out of vogue, people want to read PETER PAN on a tablet, but, at one point, they want to own their very own PETER PAN. Fetishizing bibliophiles, they will make writers survive. Author here ponders, is she even a writer, given that her fingers start hurting, because this keyboard is annoying, you have to push the buttons really down and given that she mostly uses the right middle finger, her ability to write further is definitely compromised. There is always something, something physical, that stands in the way of her creative pursuits. When animating, your hand gets numb from drawing the same image over and over, when painting, the smell of the paints does you in, when acting, stage fright grapples you by the throat, and then again, all of this does not pay not pay not pay. And if you become rich and famous, the paparazzi will take photos of you first thing in the morning when you strut out the door for your morning jog in your pink

11

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

flannel jump suit. Yep, this is how it is how it is how it is how it is. And we write and write and write. Stop, spellcheck, spellcheck. Ahh, how many many words? 4018, the ubiquitous well done, the pat on the back, the day in the library here, moving forward forward. ---------------------------------------------------------Ron Paul on the telly, the author here lost some of her writing, the computer shut down, out of nowhere, she ponders, her words got lost lost. She tries to reconstruct those words, she remembers some sentences about the virtues of pen and paper, the independence of writing, the not being tied to a machine that might or might not work, on the telly once more Ron Paul on abortion. If the author was American, Ron Paul would definitely have her vote. He is just great. Anyhoo, let us type and type and write. 4118 words, not bad not bad. She looked through the writers’ rooms series in the guardian, you can do that, with a push of a button, you can read an interview with max frisch or umberto eco, with the paris review, and then you can go on typing away, typing away. So, no one will read this, just fine just fine just fine. Her writing is more like jamming, you start up and see where it will take you. The day is moving into the night, the fan works noisily in the kitchen, there is no plot as of yet, the writer just pluckers along, and now she remembers what she was writing about when the computer shot down earlier in the afternoon, she was reminiscing about her tea in the coffeeshop at the corner of 41st and arbutus, that is what is the main subject matter, the main plot of this her story, her walks all over town, her meanderings, not enough for a story, maybe maybe maybe. Somehow she lost her thread, but that seems to happen a lot these days, she will go back in and fragment the text further more, only to collage it later on. Writing is tough, there is no real structure, you just start somewhere and each sentence somehow morphs into the next. And let us type and type and type. She feels like having ice cream, maybe she will drive down to the grocery store, anyhoo, let us type and type and type. 12

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi ---------------------------------------------------------------

2012

She really feels like having ice cream, vanilla, though there are different ones in the frozen food section, there is something called premium and another one called original, there is soy ice cream, and author here ponders if this is really what one should write about, there are more pressing issues than the slight differences between the differing flavours of ice cream, anyhoo, we have about 4500 words here, save, spellcheck, if you just keep on typing, a story will crystallize, like magic like magic like magic. ---------------------------------------------------------------------february 4, maybe so, once again in the library in oakridge, the chair here is utterly uncomfy, there are only 55 minutes left and for some weird reason it gives the second count away, too, the little icon in the upper corner, she can stare at the second counter, and do that for one hour, somehow, there are better things to do, she should just do her typing, hopefully, a great text will emerge, by accident, by accident. The woman at the other station types fast and furiously, so does the man at the other computer. Are they fashioning their novels, just like author here, is this what people do? Apparently, not everyone is a writer, the amazon contest for best breakout novel took a month to fill up, it took a month to fill up the 5000 spots, seems, not everyone is a writer a writer. Author here ponders, given that all her submissions are rejected, one could think that there is no publishing going on whatsoever, but apparently there is there is there is. Just not for her, just not for her. Her texts lack substance, coherence, the like the like. Lack narratives, lack syntax. Lack this and that and the other. Well, they sure don't lack wordcount, we can provide the element of prolificness, even if we twist and turn our sentences in weird and strange ways. Outside, the sun is shining, a 13

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

nice cozy february day, apparently, there are early springs everywher everywhere. Facebook is going public, it seems to be the big thing that reporters talk about. Especially British reporters, the bbc is awash with analyzing face book, whereas the American stations do their usual cowboy-sih thing, let us start this war or that war or the other. Author ponders, she should use her pen to start changing the world, but, hey, it is not PEN anymore, it is KEYBOARD, she should start a group, a non-profit called KEYBOARD. Everyone is starting an ngo, why not her, not her. She is no teamworky creature, she is a lonely wolf, thus, she might as well stick to writing, unpublished writing. No books from her texts, not yet, not yet, not yet. She has to die first, someone will find her texts in the attic, then she will become an overnight sensation. To be a famous artist, you first have to die and die and die. So the saying goes, writer here types forward, forward. 4880 words, not bad not bad not bad. Might as well hit 5000, she watches the words accumulate, hits the wordcount button, the software here in the library does not show the wordcount automatically, it shows the seconds though, ah, every one of thess computers is weird and strange , they all march to their own little drummers, drummers. 4939, 4939. seventy words more, seventy, seventy. Might as well spellcheck, save, the like the like. One can see the warmness from here, the sun bathing the world, from here, from here. Her words are off, that is ok ok, as long as they accumulate, everything is fine, everything is fine. 4990, just some more words some more words some more words. And... 5000 it is, time to leave, time to leave. Go thru the mall, take the canada line, travel around this city, venture out to burnaby, just, don’t sit still don’t sit still. Write, type, let the day pass you be, why not why not why not why not. She is some kind of poet, a sucky one, but a poet nonetheless. Some kind of artist, an unsuccessful one, an artist nonetheless. She has a certificate to prove it, a bachelor of fine arts, whatever that is that is. And the day marches forward, forward, forward.

14

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi -------------------------------------------------

2012

hm, hm, hm, february 5. On the telly, fareed sakaria, gps, a panel discussion about mitt romney, one guy from the new Yorker, another one from the ney york times or another new york daily, author here did not quite get his job description, one woman, another woman, the discussion is lively, everything mitt. Somehow this is not what writer here should describe on a sunny sleepy Sunday morning, she should describe her walk to Kerrisdale, her morning coffee, the silentness of the waking-uppy city, the formulation of her text, in her mind, while walking, her search for words that are utterly eloquent and well constructed but that vanish once you open the house door, the words that merely live while you are outside and are not there anymore once you are at the typewriter, the description of entropy that never ever works, the words that make only sense to the writer and that pass the reader by, always always. the writer on the telly, his name is david brooks and he is an author, his book is THE SOCIAL ANIMAL, author here could google it, the other one is a new Yorker editor, then there is a woman named crystia freeland, and now author here had to take a call and now there is a vacationey ad, all her words are mushing into one word salad, not that good, not that good, not that good. Tonight, there will be the superbowl, author ponders, if she should write ‘bout that, it seems her subject matters are so very random, they amass serendipitously, the sun outside is shining, the day is mild and happy, green leaves outside, the quietness of a writer’s room, author is not quite sure if she should type, write inside, maybe, it is so much better to venture out to the library, the discussions on the telly bombard her thought processes, how can you write while listening in to a short walk thru the herstory of democracy, on the telly, fast fast fast fast fast fast. And now an interview with Singapore’s prime minister. Ah, cnn, cnn. How did writers manage to fashion their pieces far away from the 24-hour-bombardment from the telly, how and how and 15

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

how. Author here notices her writing going strangely array, but, hey, even if this is substandard waxing, horrible musing, we are still at 5476, not bad not bad not bad. ----------------------------------------------------------------5500 words, seems that the interview is taking place against the backdrop of the davos economic forum, author finds it difficult to listen in to the so very nice and polite talking heads, there is laughing when the prime minister says that a naval base in Singapore would be twice as big as Singapore itself, author here is not quite sure if she understood it right, fareed sakaria counters that you have ample amounts of space to put casinos on, author here is utterly confused by all the fragments of words that collapse into her writing, she tries to talk up against the noise pollution, spelling out each and every word that is spoken on the machine, the television. And now we have 5700, outside the sun is shining, inviting the author to leave her seat in front of the laptop, to venture out, to have the slight breeze in her face, anything, but staying put and type and type and type. She sits hunched over, this cannot be good cannot be good. Sentences, as fast as possible, as fast as possible. ---------------------------------------The word COMMENSORATE is used a lot on the telly, author ponders, it is a nice word, pretty big, she has no clue whatsoever what it means, she looks out at the plants, looks down at the paper basket, anyhoo, she types, types, types. ---------------------------------end of page 16, top of page 17. The telly still on, lots of different ads, the constant repetition of the same ads, the weird and strange and utterly obstructed, utterly constructed familiarity of the

16

the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

peddling of consumer goods in this weird machine, author ponders if this is her new subject matter, the description of the idiot box, there is Seinfeld, she has seen it lots of time, ah, reruns reruns reruns. Author here ponders how to fashion her query, she has written one already, apparently it is good to write the query at the beginning of your writerly journey, it is kind of like an outline, you can change it once you have your 100 000 words, writing as a very tight, very strict, regimented structure, that is how you craft any artpiece, you have your little blueprint, either on the back of a napkin in a pub, or somewhere loating around in your hippothalamus, you have to plot it down, and then you just execute your idea, and then distribute it, to the masses, the masses. Author ponders, her weird and strange views of art production, so very debatable so very so very. And some more costanza, some more Elaine, the sony tv, against the reflections of the sun, outside, a sunny sunny day, inside, the life of a couch potato, a literary potato, you have to sit still to write, have to sit still to read, some kinda meditation, so it seems so it seems so it seems. Next to six thousand, ah, the wordcount word count. The laughtrack, another ad, watching it out of the corner of your eyes. Pre-superbowl, pre-superbowl. Ah, the fifth of february in 2012, she types and types and types. No plot yet, none, none, none, none, none. Just keep on typing, a story will emerge, has to, has to, has to. And, yep, we have 6000, hooray, hooray, hooray. ------------------------------------------------------Lots of pre-superbowl hype, nice, so this is what author here writes about, this cannot be good, not that good, not that good. How can there be any correlation between the superbowl and literary pursuits, her anti-superbowl-emotions are paramount, you just can’t write good stuff while watching the super-bowl, this does not go with that, especially if you have no clue whatsoever ‘bout the intricacies of the game, if you are not even quite sure if it is basketball or baseball or football, then, maybe, writing about the game will backfire. Should backfire. The author here 17

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2012

ponders, maybe, she should pen her whole novel about the game, there is a very popular narrative, and it is much more fun, if you have no sports knowledge whatsoever. If you are the only poet in a sportsbar, the one who drinks white zinfandel, yep, that one that one that one. And we type, put down, utter bullshit, anyhoo, we have 6190, so that is good is good. It is really weird and strange how they can fill the program, now bob costas is interviewing Madonna, how long is it till the superbowl 46, how long how long how long? And 6229 we have here, so many words so many many words. practice of writing, day-in, day-out, that is how poets are made are made are made. Gotta will yourself, writing is a sport a sport. Yay. And this is where lo-brow meets hi-brow. And once more, yay. The singing of the office cast, the 30-rock cast, yay and yay and yay. 6292, not bad, not bad, not bad @ all. ------------------------------------------------------------------------february 6 hunched-over sitting, she should produce 2000 words, has to, has to. A black squirrel outside, running by, coming back, a very big one, more a beaver than a squirrel. Could be one with child, anyhoo, author here is sitting once more in front of the laptop, typing and typing. There are cooking shows, why are there no writing shows. The meticulous documenting of the writing process, highlighting, well, the highlights, leaving out, well, the non- highlights. Outside a reluctant day in february, the only songs here are the staticy noise from the computer and the overpowering sing sang of the fridge. Writing writing, her right middle finger is getting sore already, her lower back starts to hurt, writing is not what it used to be, used to be. Writing needs a manual tool, some kind of pen, some kind of utensil, to be scratched over surface. Something archaic, nostalgic, have you ever heard of a nom de keyboard? Nom de clef? What is KEYBOARD

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2012

in French? Author here, scratches her chin, that is what authors do, there are author gestures and then there are non-author gestures. Author here should make author friends, there should be a writerly circle, something like that, something of that kind. And they should all be former art students, painters, animators, they have to bond over something. A common enemy, maybe, something of that kind, they should meet up in coffee shops, they should exchange notes. Yup, there are online communities, but is that enough enough. Conceptual systems, the sign in starbucks said that, author ponders, now, there is a nice title for a book. CONCEPTUAL SYSTEMS, beats me what that is, but it sounds good and that is all we vie for here. 6600 words, give or take some, give or take some. -----------------------------------------------Watching the big bang theory while typing, she ponders if she is getting agoraphobic. They say, you have to do your typing indoors, there is the romanticism that refers to the rooms of writers, there is a series of writers’ rooms-pics, in the guardian in 2007. She remembers that she mentioned that in this very text, she picked up a magazine in the grocery store in the morning, which had an article called “ novel gazing”, which had photographs of the offices of famous novelists. There are painters whose main subject matter is their own studio, animators tend to make films about animators. And then, there is, of course, the ubiquitous “selfportrait”. Author here notices that she slithered away from her stabs at diagnosing her own agoraphobia to writing about subject matters, somehow her writing is way too off-course, she is so very much committed to producing a certain wordcount each and every day, while watching reruns all day in her PJs. We have 6700 now, we need 1300 more. she is retitling this text, constantly, constantly. -----------------------------------

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the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

and …. february 7 it is it is. She makes sure that she goes back and disables the capitalization at the beginning of the sentence, that she retypes the F of February, makes it storch the reader’s consciousness, she tells herself that it is more artsy, that re-fashioning orthographic conventions is good good, that that is how it should be should be. The glitches, the hiccups, that is what will enliven her prose, that is what will set her apart,, that is what should define her otherwise ah so blah writings, her texts will be hiccupped into the pantheon of literary master pieces, somehow, somehow. This will make her literature stand above ordinary grocery lists, it will set her texts apart from tv-remote-control manuals, it will even set her writings apart from the spoken words uttered at two after midnight in the more seedy parts of town, where wannabe-poetry-slam creatures try to evoke a fledgling aura of after-college-malaise. Author looks at her writing, wow, can she spit out a lotta bullshit, how do you do it, Charlie Rose asks, how and how and how. “Well, Charlie, let me tell you, it is not easy, or as Garfield would say, it is a dirty job, but somebody has 2 do it”, author ponders, what happened to all the Garfield books she had, they must be somewhere, somewhere. She is back in the community college, her computer at home did not work, did not did not, she was about to describe a suburban malaise, fuelled by her early-morning ventures into the awakening safeway on arbutus, but, hey, now she might as well describe this place, the so very goodlooking woman at the other computerstation, who types and types and types. The woman sniffs, has a cold, this library is brimming with people, goodlooking woman sniffs some more, sniffs some more. Describe all these places, all of these places with writing places, that is her subject matter subject matter. Amassing writing places, that is the plot, must be the plot. Fascinating places that hiccup a not so fascinating existence, dreary words pecked away in computer stations the world over, good looking woman throws her snot into her kleenex, the day marches forward, forward. Author emails her queries to agents in new york city, they all e-mail back their rejections, ah , what can you

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the writer

nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

do what can you can you do. You just write, girl, that is all you can do all you can do. Type and type and type and type. You’ll make it after all, throw your green blue black beret into the air, Minneapolis, mary tyler moore moments, the like the like the like. And 7222 words we have here have here. The great non-narrative- THE GREAT NON NARRATIVE, she is rushing back to her computer station, from the back of the library, the woman at the other computer is eating chocolate drops, she has bronze-ish nail polish, ah the library, so may many people. Some more chocolate drops, author here can hear her crunch some crunchy fillings, anyhoo, author ponders, if she should retitle her text once more, great non narrative, ah, not catchy enough, not not not. Just call it TEXT, that would be fine, HEFT is big, this seems to be the time of one-word titles, four letter titles. Ah the ever changing climate of publishing, same as 100 years ago, same as 100 years from now. And she has some more chocolate,. The whiff of chocolate chocolate. ------------------Author rushed to the starbucks near the entrance, rushes back, by so many many people, turns out the woman at the other computer station is not eating chocolate drops, she is having these weird pretzels with chocolate chips therein, author here ponders if her banal, every day observations will make it into the pantheon of,,,, but, hey, she pondered that already already, self-doubt rules, rules. Come up with a fuckin’ plot already and any narrative will do, and plot and narrative are the same, have the same meaning, well, do they, do they? You just write, you can go in later and change everything. Enid Blyton wrote 400 books, apparently the leader of north korea wrote 1500 books, how tough can it be how tough how tough. Just sacrifice your life to literature, prolificize you

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2012

oeuvre, type and type and type. Ah, she is losing it here, one word at a time one word at a time one word at a time. Time. ---------------------------------------------------------------Still sitting in the library, still at the same computer station, still having the same computer station neighbours. The woman to the right, the woman to the left, both very similar to each other, in a appearance, that is. Both still typing, writing their essays, one is typing up her handwritten texts, the other seems to type and research from the internet. Both have long straight hair. Author ponders, does her writing classify as gossip? 7601, 7602. --------------------------------------------she likes this library, one day she will work in one. At this time, she produces content, writes, she can borderline live with the staticness of staying put, having your head leaning over the keyboard, with the constant typing, with the fiddles of nausea that come and go, she can handle the music of the computers, the constant peering of people at their cell phones, she can she can. It should feel good to barf all over the glittering keys, that would enliven this place, yep, liven it up, do it, do it. But, hey, nausea is only there, in the background, dull, dull dull dull. So, how many words do we have here, have here. Not 8000 yet, not yet not yet not yet. She will type unit she reaches 100 000, then and only then, is it time to stop to stop. Others can write textbooks, others can do that do that, non-fiction books, but hers is this, a long 100 000-word-long poem, one that goes on and on, forever, forever. Yep, it has to be said, boy, can she write bullshit bullshit. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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nasrin khosrowshahi

2012

apparently, she has not much time to write on this february 8. She has to be places, has to run errands, has to wait for the dryer to spin, outside, pouring rain, thus there is not much time for writing and typing. She ponders about the correlation of rain and writing, there is none, is there, but, hey, we have to fill the page, even if it is with nonsense, we have to train the writing chops, which is another incoherent sentence, ah, seems that today nothing really works, at least not in the realm of creativity. There is no writer’s block, there never is, but there is the inability to string eloquent word beads on the string of, hmm, beats me, what string. And w’ere typing here typing here, 7919, so very very near to 8000, 8000. ---------------------------------------------------In the library in the art school, waiting for the lecture, the one that will start in an hour, author here has time to kill, she might as well type some more words, some more words. There is no plot, but she mentioned that already, there are only repetitions, repetitions. A woman in dark green to her right, a woman in black to her left. Author here messed up all of her surroundings, she just left all of her belongings all over the place, which is kind of driving her crazy, she cannot work like this, like this. Everything should be neatly folded, yep, OCD rules, rules. How can you function within a mess, not possible, not, not. ---------------------------------------------------------------------She knows that, technically, she is not allowed to use this place, this place is only for legitimate card holders, enrolled students, faculty, not for poets who just happen to be in the neighbourhood and want to fashion their amazing master pieces, if they do not pay, they are not welcome here, pure and simple, pure and simple. How can one write under these circumstances, how, how? She should go back to her adobe, and she is not quite sure what an adobe is, to her writing room, which 23

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2012

in her case, is the kitchen table. The narrative of the story, not there as of yet, not there as of yet. She should write about art, something critical, something artherstorical. She still ponders if she should enrol in the grad program in nyc, at the sva, who knows, who knows, who knows. She can’t make up her mind, it is way 2 expensive, 2 tough and all. She feels hungry, she should wrap this up wrap this up. And, btw, 8218 it is it is. With btw meaning BY THE WAY, by the way, btw. --------------------------------------------------february 10, ah, she might as well type for one hour straight, she has a meeting at 4, it is now 12:30, there should be ample amounts of time between 1:20 and 4:30, to make it to the meeting, even if the rain starts pouring, even if the Canada Line breaks down. Author here ponders, no one in Vancity refers to the Canada Line as THE SUBWAY, it is either skytrain or …, actually it is skytrain for all of the trains. That is how it is, even though it is not technically a skytrain in all places. Author ponders, her observations are so very debatable, she gears her writings towards nonvancouverites, so that she can make up stuff, non-factual claims, this is after all her version of Vancouver, her reality, and it changes anyways once you put it to paper, where does fiction end and where does non-fiction begin, ahe ponders, ponders, ponders. Ah, a rainyish day in the community college, there is a black and white you tube movie on the other computer, in the distance. People talking, lots of them, author ponders, how many books are there in this library, library. There are 3 floors, this is the new library in Langara, she knows that she can look it up somewhere if she wants to know, she can ask the librarians, but she does not want to make a spectacle of herself, she wants to fade into the background, be invisible, be under the radar, radar. That is better for a writer, so it seems so it seems. You can observe better, so it seems, so it seems. Just wear your beret when you are on Charlie Rose, that is enough enough. For some weird reason, being on Charlie Rose seems to be the epitome of marketability for a writer. Author here has lost it lost it. And we type and type 24

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2012

and type. 8547 words and 8550. Ah, words and words and words. Good ones, bad ones, the l;ike and the like and the like. Some save, some spellcheck spellcheck. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------FEBRUARY 16, she has not written for what seems like an eternity. Life gets in the way, that is how it is how it is. She has to make herself sit at the computer, each and every day each and every day. Just to watch yourself typing that is enough enough. To press down buttons, keys, that should do it do it. She should put commas where they belong, she should do this and that and the other. Should rewrite, edit, send it out. She should look up at the light on the ocean factory, she should make more sense, especially to readers. Writing is abut communicating your ideas to others, it is not about long monologues, she is confused, there are as many statements about writing, as there are readers. Outside, Vancouver rain, drizzling down, this keyboard here is so very annoying, she is sitting once more in the library of the art school. Next to her, all these books that no one ever reads, people look at them, look thru them, but, hey, no one reads all of them. We pick, we choose, that s how it is how it is. We read the stuff we wanna read. That is how it is how it is. She has 9000 words give or take some, she might as well reach the 10 000 mark line, she will sell her words. One letter at a time, one word at a time. To the highest bidder. Manuscripts are auctioned all the time, not hers though, not hers. Hers is not the flavour of the week, yep, that must be it must be it. Her writing is superb, it always is, but no publisher will publish it, yep, it is all politics, politics. The old “ahead by a century” adage, yep, that must be it must be it. Songs outta Kingston, you would not get the connotations, why should you why should you? Set the commas where they belong, you idiot, you idiot.

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2012

Author here is hungry, it is half past ten, her words are slightly nonsensical, there is no plot, she throws her hands into the air, she is a non-gifted writer, yeah, yeah, one of those, one of those. The stupor that comes from watching too many shows on tv, that should not be that good for a distinguished, ah, so amazing writer. Even grocery lists are better, better. She saves this as GROCERYLIST, yep, that will be the title, it is as good a title as any, it will be a book that tops the new york times bestseller list, it will be translated into 74 languages, it will be required reading in graduate programs the world over. Young wannabes will write their dissertations about her book, yay yay yay. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------should be february 17. Sitting half-groggy in the art school library, she has to go downtown, to the passport office, instead of sitting here, while not even taking her coat off, sitting here in too warm street clothes, with shawl and, well, at least, she took off the mittens, she just had to print a document out, she should go back to the bus station, walk through the drizzle, nobody needs her literary aspirations flooding the keyboard, there is no need for her writings, she just got an e-mail rejection, that was sent at 4:30 am, from New York, obviously that was the first order of business for that person in his midtown office, to reject author here. He might as well have done it in his pjs, or on the commuter train from new jersey, anyhoo, one more rejection, one more of many, ah so many ah so many. Which means, keep on typing, writing, the like the like. File away at you dowdiest of artforms, which is how one former lit agent describes writing, and he is so right so rights. Dowdiest. Author here likes that, goes with having your hair in a bun, living in mothbally clothes, having cats around your feet. Dowdiest, huh. Ah, what is wrong with mothballs, and the dishes that flood all over the sink? What is wrong with the anti-glamour, what what what. She watched dr zhivago late in the night, omar sharif penning songs for lara, in the white winter 26

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2012

wonderland of, could be, Siberia, could be anywhere. She was shocked how much the film reflected cold war mentalities of the west, so that is how poets are chosen, not by merit of their work, but by the merit of how much they tag the partyline and any partyline will do. Author here could elaborate, but why why? Time to go downtown, time to take a number in the passport office, time to do this, that, and the other. Time and time and time. The day marches forward, ah, solemny, so solemny. And 9379 we have, we have, we have. --------------------------------------------------------------------she is now in the central library, ah, so many people so many many people. A woman next to her, the whiff of too much perfume, the escalators, up and down, she can see it all from here, people going up and going down, and the elevator can be seen too and the music from the ipod of the smiley person in green, lindy green. Lindy is not the right word, ah, maybe olive, lighter shade of olive, the unkempt person walking by smells too much, too harsh. Olive green person laughs out loud, yep, that is what happens when you play video games, and author here types and types and types and types. Should go back to the art school, sleepiness is gripping her by the throat, ever so silently silently. Yep, am a poet, and i know it, could be worse, could be playing a video game in an olive sweater and a black and white baseball cap and laugh out and talk to the too blond person next to me. Author here does not make that much sense, not to the reader, not to the reader. Woman next to author leaves, takes her perfume with her, ah, how many words, how many many words. Gotta be home by the time of BIG BANG, you cannot miss sheldon, not that not that not that. The writer in spring, why not why not why not. Nothing makes that much sense, her words, reluctant, reluctant. 9659 it is it is. -------------------------------------------------

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2012

February 18. Saturday. Rain outside. a morning, a fast foray into civilization, into the flux, the crux of people, a coffee, a walk thru the supermarket, ballet dancers in pink running around a column, the Saturday dance school, the liquor store in the mall. Then, back to the kitchen table, the roar of the fridge, words reluctant reluctant. The poet in spring, though spring looks more like fall. February is, technically, winter, author should take up a gig as a professional writer, in a deadlineoriented setting, with editors and copywriters, where her writing will start to soar, sail professionally, where sensical treatises will grab the reader by the throat and force him to read, to read. 9789 words, writer here, author here, participated in abna, a breakout novel contest in 5 rounds, where two lucky winners will win a publishing contract, 2 chosen ones, two, two. Penguin will publish their stuff, the world of writing, tightly controlled by publishing houses. That cannot be good, luckily, any hack now can put her stuff online, to be stored forever in obscurity obscurity. Writers better than her have tackled issues like that, she should just keep on amassing words words. Need some more, will have ten thousand, ah, numbers numbers. The fridge roars, the taps on the keys, the rain outside, how do you spell DREARY, DREARY. She should turn on the light, too dark here for writing writing. If her car wasn’t broken down, she would drive to the coffee shop down on arbutus, if her laptop had a longer-lasting battery life, she would write in the coffee shop, where the warmth of the light would glisten up the edges of the squares in her keyboard, where sadness is interrupted by yellow orange neon lamps, maybe there is something to the premise of a disease called SAD, seasonal affective disorder, ah, malaise, ah, melancholia. The drops of the rain hanging plumply from the pitchblack railing outside, author here, writer here, she taps away at the keys, at the keys.. yay, twenty mote words, twenty more words. what is the difference between an influential literary agent and a non-influential one, when did publishing houses start to require agents for submission, there are tons of publishers, who will accept

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2012

unsolicited material, without the interference of an agent, that is how it is, how it is. Waiting game, waiting game, author has her writings at two publishing houses, at this time, so she should just keep on producing more words, more words. Eventually it will be published, yay and yay and yay. 10 020, yay, yay, yay. The musings of a writer, so above a grocery list, so very below a grocery list. At least, grocery lists make sense, to the reader, to the writer. Yay and yay and yay and yay. -----------------------------------------------------------------------she could title this VANCOUVER, a stroll through the local bookstore hit home the fact that this is the time of books with names like NEW YORK, LONDON and the like, there is no book called VANCOUVER, as of yet, that is. Given, that author here lives in vancouver, she might as well title this text VANCOUVER. Yay, GROCERY LIST is out, VANCOUVER is in. -------------------------------------

February 20. the slow Monday morning, the hovering around in a coffee shop, the ten o’clock coffee hour, blue collar workers, white collar workers, starbucks will never be outta business. The writer is back here at the kitchen table, next to the roaring fridge, she looks up at the tilted pan, somehow her sentence is senseless, senseless. The bla of the everyday, the songs of the fridge, the writing that will not garner awards. Not even publishers. Mark Twain self-published, ten thousand self-published writers on amazon, who will know them, once they are cold and dead. Is posterity what writers want, what painters want, is it fame and fortune, what do they want, what, what. A plumber wants to be remunerated, so does a writer, it is that simple, that simple. If you start your day at a typing machine, on Monday morning, fresh, out of shower, coffee, hair nicely coiffed (whatever that means), you are just logging time in at the office, you are tinkering with words, you 29

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2012

are at the border between innovation and execution. Ok, the last glip was inspired by a NEXT reportage on CNN, anyhoo, author here types and types. Ten three oh seven, there might be another part of this writing, the one that got lost in cyberspace, she might retrieve it and paste it in. her writings are ruled by the machine, the machine that stolpers around, hiccupping hiccupping. She looks up at the empty winebottle on the counter, nope, she does not drink, it was applejuice with bubbles therein, this writer lives on coffee and chamomiletea, her extravaganzas are watching too much of BIG BANG, is that way too prosaic for aspiring members of the pantheon of worlditerature, ah, who knows who knows? we have more than 10 000 here, wordcount is what makes or breaks a writer, nothing else nothing else. Fighting the status quo, huh, everyone can scoff at the status quo, the world is awash with rebels and revolutionaries, this writing is en par with a grocery list, aspiring to be a manual for opening a garage door, it is quivering between poetics and functionality, form begets function, ever so slightly ever so slightly. She has the right degree of poetic senselessness, the “open for interpretation” par excellence, par excellence. This stupid software is doing its own thing, her lines are skewed up, the window became narrow for no apparent reason, the author feels like throwing the laptop thru the room, like a guitarist on stage, the machine made me do it, do it. ah, might as well save this, spellcheck this. And 10 547 it is, it is. ---------------------------------------------------in the library downtown, a pretty nice seat here, the woman next to her is working on her treatise, that is nice, that means, nice-smelling lady, nice-smelling scholar, she does not wear glasses, though, she looks at the highlighted parts of her text, ponders, takes her right hand to her chin, scratches her hair, has her head in her hand, author here ponders, somehow her writing is off, off, ah, it always is, always is. The writings of february, her stalkings of twitter accounts of various lit

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2012

agents, in nyc, she ponders, what will happen, once an agent takes her on, on. And should she even go thru an agent, there are tons of publishers who do not require agents, who just read thru her stuff and then reject her, she has done it all, all, she has sent her stuff to publishers and to agents, it never works, either way, either way. But one day, she will be published, how will that change her life, will she still be able to watch as much BIG BANG, as much SEINFELD. For some weird reason the font gets suddenly bold, ah, these machines do whatever they feel like feel like. The wordcount at 10 000 and something, she types away, types away. Every day is nano-day, she has to type her novels, twenty per year, someone will publish this, should publish this. She has to insert HEAVING BOSOMS, apparently, apparently. Because, if you dare to not do that, you will stay unpublished, stay unlauded. No booktour for you, no soup for you. You will rot in your attic, under the roof, you will die slowly, you will be one more poet that stays nameless, nameless. The starving artist, well, in her case, the obese artist. Slightly obese. There are all these philosophies about the state of the artist, the state of the scientist, who cares and who cares and who cares. All the old paradigms are shifting, and what the heck are paradigms anyways, anyways. We have 10974, not bad, not bad. In november, she had 40 000 by the twentieth of the month, this febrary has a very so very meager output. No deadline, no writing. We are not that self-disciplined, as a species, a s[species. You have to have someone breathing down your neck, we are all workhorses, if there is no whip, there is no writing. So it seems so it seems so it seems. ---------------------------------------------------------------Yep, a february 21. A day in the rain, in the desolate UBC library, it is reading week after all. Some eager students here, the ones that are serious and studious, the ones that type fast,

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2012

tomorrow’s and today’s overachievers. The ones that are gripped by their chosen fields, the ones that hunger for logging in long long hours, to the brink of exhaustion. Author here is one of them, the only caveat, the only thing between her and constant typing is her eventual exhaustion, the right middle finger that will act up and refuse to do all the typing, that is what ten finger typing is for, the skill that author here has not yet mastered, not yet, not yet. There are writers who cannot do it, Shakespeare for one, he still made a name for himself himself. A dull loud knall in the back, the woman to her right is typing, fast and fast. It is e-mail, though, she looks seriously at the monitor, this school is filled with serious women who wear scarves around their necks, who wear glasses. Scholars scholars. Author here is no scholar, nope, she is a maker, maker of texts, texts, there for others to be deciphered. That is how it is how it is. She scratches her chin, reluctantly, not a real scratch, just a tap with the back of the left hand, for a spilt-second, anyhoo, she ponders, where is her place in the pantheon, yep, that pantheon, the one filled up to the brim with literary greats, is she one of the lesser minds, one of the higher minds, a giant, a non-giant, who knows, ah, who knows? She is there with other authors of grocerylists, with fence-manualists, with the ones that punch a hole into a bus-ticket, her writings are too simple, too convoluted, not good enough, way, ah, way too great. Ah, to be a writer, while rain pours down on Vancouver, on the bus from 41st to wesbrook mall, while february is happening, reluctantly, reluctantly. Time to go to 2 pie square, or whatever the name of the best pizzaplace in town is, where a slice is still two and a half, where life stands still, happily, happily. Ah, to be a scholar, a scholar. ----------------------------------------------------Ah, writer here is uttely bored, still typing away, typing away. The chair is utterly tiresome, the woman next to her is still typing, there is nothing really happening here, nothing, nothing. She surfed the web, random data about random persons, did you know that there is something called 32

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2012

quantum computing, she missed a talk about it, would have been interesting, she was in UBC Robson Square, she asked the woman at the front desk, she did not give her the correct info, thus, author here, will forever be in the dark about quantum computing. Wikipedia, of course, gave her ample info, and she now knows the life story of the brilliant prof who spoke on quantum computing, hey, here is a thought, how come they are always men, always, always. Of course, of course, the old boy mentality is much more sneaky and sophisticated these days, that is how it is how it is. Author here writes, types, she is not a number person, thus, what do I care do I care. Mine is the world of words, apparently, apparently. Good words, bad words, anywords. It is next to twelve, time to have pizza, pizza. Time to save this, time to wordcount this, the like, ah, the like, the like, the like. Eleven six one eight, a February with ten thousand words. --------------------------so, there is an open mic on thursday at the wired monk in kits, it starts at seven-thirty and ends at ten, author here has open-miked once, in agro, on Granville island, for seven minutes, to a standing ovation, mainly, because she was the last gig, and everyone was happy to go home, though a woman from Portland and a woman from Washington State really liked her stuff, well, actually, she read a really great part of her writing, was tough, not to like that, apparently, it is imperative to read from your better writings, from the strong stuff, not the weak stuff, not the fillers, not, not, not. Author ponders, she felt pretty queasy in her stomach, somehow, she does not really want to feel like that again, open mic can just go on without her, why not why not why not. Who needs the exhilaration, or whatever –ation comes with reading in front of a crowd, you know, people can have heart attacks when speaking in public, in front of a crowd, she might as well just practice with the pizza person, hear herself order a pizza, that is public speaking enough, THAT SLICE OVER THERE, and, maybe PLEASE, for better form, that is as much public speaking, as we can muster 33

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here, muster here. Let us just type our words into the computer, let it sail thru cyberspace, that is as much engagement with the public that a writer needs, needs, for the advancement of her career, so it seems, so it seems, so it seems. Roughly 12 000 words, not quite not quite not quite. As of yet, yeah yeah and yeah. ----------------------------------------------------------------february 22- sitting in the library, time: 52 minutes after noon, next to her a lady who looks like a writer, who is looking, staring at her monitor, who seems to edit and rewrite the text on the monitor, she has a blue-green wooly sweater, glasses, a pronounced nose, she has grey hair, short, she is very very serious, she is very wrinkled up and very old, but definitely not too old, she is very good at doing her editing thingie, she seems to have the persona of a writer pat down, she looks at the monitor, reads some, then tilts her head and looks down at the keyboard, then looks back at the monitor, leans forward, has her hand resting on the mouse, then she leans her chin on her hand, pensive, author here ponders, should she adopt the persona of this woman, will she be a wellpublished writer, will she be, will she, will she? If you go through the motions, you will automatically become a writer, that is how it should be should be. Author is annoyed, someone replied to her e-query, the usual, the ubiquitous e-rejection, author ponders, her book is so very very very good, but, hey, it just gets rejected, again and again and again. Maybe, she should vie for a nom de plume, that should do the trick do the trick. Samuel Clemens took up the name MARK TWAIN, hey, worked for him, worked 4 him. Author here could do the same, that is what you need to do, if you are vieing for the nobel prize, or maybe you have to go with your own name, ah, who knows who knows who knows. Author is pissed off that she gets rejected again and again, ah, the biases of agents and publishers, for god sakes, publish my book already, it is just as good as the rest of the fluff that sails through the literary landscape, yay, why not why not why not. Ah, to be 34

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unpublished, ah to be published, either way, it does not make any difference, any difference. She feels like crying, like taking the keyboard and smashing it on the next person, yay, you should never critique an artist, never, never, never ever. The sensible soul of an artist, no wonder, they all starve in the gutter, the gutter. Too many writers, too little readers. Lots of supply, no demand whatsoever. Ah and ah and ah. But hey, we have 12 300 words here, give some, take some. A february with 12 000 words, not good, any november makes you type 50 000 words, easily, easily. Author should be more prolific, less prolific, her words should be more coherent, less coherent, more of this or less of that. You are no poet no poet, try, as much as you want, try and try and try. The library, she writes, the weird man on the other computer stares at her, for seconds, that is nice, one really likes to be stared at by a potential sociopath, that is how it is, how it is. Upstairs, people reading, down here, the klimper klumper of her typing, her typing. It is one ten, PM, PM, PM. A woman in pink shoes, a grey jacket and a black T-shirt with the white letters saying FINCH on it, she has glasses and looks aloof. The big 3 on the column, yep, this is the third floor, so you know, so you know. Author stoops her typing, for moments, for seconds, her neck starts to hurt, her writing, her writing. Ah, to shoo all these words in line, so that they mush together, so that they sing in unison, ah, to be a writer, a poet, a poet. This is not what she wanted to do with her life, she wanted to be an athlete, an explorer, an astronaut. Or something something something. A scientist, something, something, and anything will do, should do. Ah, to be a writer a writer. 12591, 12592. the words the words the words. To sing at the computer, while a class is happening behind her. While the library is doing its thing its thing its thing. In february, or something, and something. ------------------------------------

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On the telly, “the new adventures of old Christine”, the author tries to fashion her so very amazing words, which is kinda tuf, to listen and watch while writing, writing. 12 639 words, she has to hurry up, she should have more words, more words come february 29. It is a leap year this year, writer here ponders if she can say something philosophical about this fact, something interesting, something anything. Author was waiting for the bus, she went to the Chapters on Granville, she picked up a book called THE FIRST FIFTY PAGES, it was about how to write an interesting, a gripping intro to a novel, author here started thinking about changing and rewriting the opening of her text, something really really really gripping. Whatever that is, whatever that is. --------------------------------------She should take her laptop to the starbucks on arbutus, she will find stuff to describe there, there are cars driving by there and she overused the word THERE. In here, there is not much to describe, except for the ever-changing images on the telly, a KIT KAT ad, a McDonald’s ad. Multigrain Cheerios, a fitness center ad. The usual, the usual. Food ads followed by ads for weightloss-helps. ---------february 23- once more in the central library, this time on the fourth floor, the big 4 on the central column, outside part of the ford center for the performing arts or whatever its name is now, it changes constantly to reflect the sponsor de jour. Writer here is not that happy her pitch of a novel did not make it into the first round of the abna, or whatever the name of that competition was, anyhoo, one in five was sacked and she is one of them. Ah, who cares, just gotta go on writing, writing, publishing is overrated, might as well put it into cyberspace, that should be enough enough, who needs recognition, ah, Rumpelstiltskin could live without it, thus, who cares who

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cares who cares, in the greater scheme of things, in the greater scheme of things. Hmm, come to think of it, i care i care i care. Author here types fast, there is not much time left on this computer, there is always an extra 60 minutes, but you have to be vigilant to tell the machine in time and if you don't, well, then: tuf luck. Author here ponders if she should go to the open mic session at the wired monk on fourth, if she should read, if she should put herself thru that. Reading your writings to total strangers, that cannot be good, not that good. And stop, and spellcheck spellcheck. She just passed the 13 000 line, ah, well, ah well, ah well. -------------------------------so, she has her 60 minutes, it seems, though the little clock-icon is ticking away, going down, to 00, and, hey, starts up at 59:01, ah, technology, magic, the like, the like. Another hour of mindless typing, while a woman walks by, while the library is happening, happening. So much to see, so much to document. The plants and flowers on the shelf in the distance, the writing, the typing. Author feels nauseated, she lightheads around, feeling queasy seems to be her eternal state these days. Is that what happens to writers, if you shove words onto a piece of paper, each and every day, each and every day. Author here sits up straight, she looks at the blue globe in the distance, commandeers herself to not vomit, not vomit. No time to vomit, not over this nice keyboard, there is space beteen the keys, if she vomits, if she barfs, it will be a total mess, her regurgitated inerts will seep all over the keys,. Will seep into it, and the term INERTS is wrong and she hates writing, she hates typing, ah, writing, the dowdiest of art forms, according to this powerful former literary agent, or something and something. Author here is losing it, she is hungry, she just had a bannana loaf, that is all, she has to have lunch or something/and something. Someone sneezes, someone

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talks to his monitor. And we're typing and typing and typing. Stop, spellcheck the like the like the like. Eliminate the superfluous letters, the ones that you typed by accident, while your fingers try to peck at the right keys, and missed and missed and missed. 13 363 words, and it is february 23, geessh, you need deadlines here, you definitely need deadlines deadlines. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------On the telly, first NEW ADVENTURES OF OLD CHRISTINE, now a car commercial, now a pregnancy test kit, now an orajel, now a kfc ad. Yep, that is what one could write about, type about. All the ads on tv, that is the news, the news. The non-news, the day dusking away outside, the songs of the typewriter, ah, the everyday of a writer. The boring ah so boring everyday. There has to be a plot, a good one, superheroes fighting each other, good versus evil, with evil or good prevailing, and either one will make for a forceful story. On the telly, some more of OLD CHRISTINE, there is a myriad of sitcoms waiting to be watched. Writing has to be a tad more exciting, a tad more interesting. Good enough to grip the reader, to not let go, to not let go. Let us see, how many words we have here, let us find the word count icon, 13 518, oh well, ah well. Author feels like going for a walk, her inability to write precious, intelligent, slightly insightful prose makes her feel like barfing, but she wrote about that already, already. Her right shoulder is acting up, maybe a walk to the staRbucks on 41st and a hot chocolate with whipped cream, no drizzle, will help, will help. Maybe, a formidable, pulitzerish text will come down from the skies, somehow, somehow. Just gotta write, just gotta write just gotta write. If you practice, eventually, eventually, you should be able to write really good, really readable stuff. So they say, so they say. The eternal optimists, the ones who believe you can spin gold outta straw. The ones that believe in magic, in the rearranging of forms, lines, words, notes, the lowly minstrels of this world, this world, and we write, we write, we write for what seems like an eternity, eternity. Oh well, one 38

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three six seven five. Better than nothing, nothing, yay and yay and yay. The horrendous words of the poet in winter, ah, why not why not why not. -------------------------------On the telly, a lot of wipe-outs in the snow, people are falling down, left, right and center, this is a really weird though action-packed show, why would people subject themselves to that and who are the viewers of a show like this, apparently author here, maybe she can type in a lot of words, even the ads are slower than that show with all its yelling, without the wise-cracking moderator, anyhoo, let’s type and type and type. A fast walk thru the rain, in the dark, by a busy street in the neighbourhood, cars whooshing by, somehow, this was kind of inspiring, author here rushed home, firing up the computer, just to write, just to write. Maybe, she will pass the 50 000 word line by the end of this month, seems highly unlikely, though, highly unlikely. She has the dirty dishes piling up in the sink, the ones that show that she has more important things to do, that she is a dedicated writer, unluckily though can’t fool yourself, the wordcount is, ah, so low, ah, so low. And once more the wipeout show, the yelling, the excited wipeout broadcaster, screaming, seems, there are two broadcasters, ah, wipeout wipeout. Writing while watching tv, this better be good, better be good. The tv made me say it, yep, this is how you fashion great great literature. And 13982, ah, next to 14 thou, great and great and great. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------13947, she types, types. Still good ol’ wipeout show, people yelling, making a fool of themselves, and now the so much slower advertisements. Author here did not make it into the AMAZON BREAKOUT NOVEL first round, she was eliminated in the beginning, today the winners were announced, the 1000 out of 5000 contestants, the chosen ones who will advance to the next round. 39

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But she said that already, she misspelled one word in her pitch, wrote herelf instead of herself, maybe that was what disqualified her, but not likely, not likely. Her pitch should have been less convoluted, very straightforward, she has read too many query-how-to-writes, that is why she overuses words for the pitch, yep, that must be it, must be it. Just keep on writing, feed your words to the machine, spellcheck it save it, the like and the like and the like. And fourteen oh nine we have, we have, we have. She feels like going out for an icecream, but, hey, gotta lose weight and weight and weight. The end of the wipeout show is near, only three minutes left, time to stop the writing the writing. and now it’s GREY’S ACADEMY, author prefers SCRUBS. It is funny, and hey, funny is good funny is good. Good. -----------------------------------February 24- rain outside, drops on the railing, a puddle on the cheap round plastic table, the empty gallon of milk, the roaring of the fridge. Cluttered, so very cluttered domesticity, author has to produce a certain amount of words, strung together, singing silently, would be good to make it to the 16000 word mark, against the rain, against the Friday boredom of the writer. The dowdiest of art forms, the dowdiest of artforms. To quote ira something, in nyc, you must be right if you live in new york city or in London, that is where words are published, still, still. You cannot publish your English words somewhere else, can you, well, can you? Not, if you want to reach 7 billion, if what you write is world literature. If it is higher than a grocery list, a mere grocery list. These are her thoughts, on a rainy day in Vancouver, in february, she has nothing to say, nothing to describe, she goes thru the motions of typing, automatically, automatically. Like the motions in a gym, the routine, the drill. And outside, the rain seems to neck against snow, or not, or not. Every time she glances up from the keyboard, the weather, ah, slightly different, slightly different. Author here has this annoying little habit of omitting the verb in a sentence and to substitute it with AH, she thinks 40

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that makes it sound, look more poetic, and, hey, who knows where prose ends, where poetry begins, where fiction ends, where non-fiction starts. Ah, to watch big bang, on a cold and drizzledin morning, to let the telly dictate the words. author ponders, she should open another window in her computer, watch a show, while writing, she cannot take her laptop to the coffeeshop on 41st, too much rain and she does not have a case for her laptop, but, hey, she needs inspirations to write, motion, sound, something moving that dictates its songs to her. There has to be something to describe, something more than this inanimate sterile, kitchen environment. Ah, to be a writer a writer, to sing at the computer, to the monitor, without pay, without any any pay. 14 520, ah well, ah well, why not, whatever. Random words of indifference and/or nonchalance, we do not have a story here, and we don’t need one, need one. So the story goes, she feels like barfing, barfing. ---------------------------------The rain is becoming way too dense, too snow-like, author here wants to run out, far away from agoraphobia, claustrophobia, she needs fresh air, she needs the stale air in the subway at rush hour, the feel of living in a city, a city, the wish for being one number, one of many, in order to find her individuality, her ability to form her own, unique songs. She cannot write here, inside of a room, oh, what did Virginia Wolff know, you need the walk thru the city, the pulsating of the city, you need the downtown library, the UBC-library, how can you write when you are the only writer in the room. How, how? And the dull constant feel of barfing, still there, still there. -----------------------------Twelve pea em, she saved this text at eleven oh five, she rushed thru the pouring snow to 41st, bought a pain chocolat, which used to be called pain de chocolat, the woman behind the counter addressed her as madame, author made her way back, she tried to hang up her overdrenched 41

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clothes, she wipes down the wet spots she brought from outside, she tries to take in the energy she got from outside, the people she saw, the rain that morphed into snow morphed into hail, how do you use all of this and make it into a good piece of writing, how can you use that, how can you describe the city while you are far away from it and sitting at your lowly typewriter, how can you make it come alive, when you did not take a camera with you, when you did not snap pics on your i-phone? How can you halt time, time, time. Anyhoo, we have more words now, next to 15000, yay, and that is all that counts, all that counts. The writer and the noise of the keyboard, the cough of the tapped-down squares, sore throat of a keyboard, with the constant hum of the machine itself. Outside, the snow is becoming sparse. The fury of a vancouvermorning is ebbing out, the day marches forward, still wet, approaching the night, not yet, not yet, not yet. Author here should find a watering hole, you need the right amount of mind-numbing minddumming not-quite-absinthchamomile tea, ah, that will not cut it, cut it. Real writers drink hard, they are all slight hemingways, they cannot be ladies with dainty white gloves, who writes while having tea and marmalade? You have to have the forceful pen of liquor drenched nights, in order to count, to count. Gotta have ample amounts of facial hair, a deep, husky voice, or else, you will fade away and never make it into the pantheon, yep, that pantheon. You will just pen grocerylists, for moments, for moments. -----------------------The persona of the writer, now there is a Title for a book, author here ponders, how will it go by literary agents, and any agent will do, should do. Gatekeepers of the publishing industry, hey, take moi, why not why not why not. And 15 thou we have here, have here. Time to have lunch, lunch, lunch.

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Charlie rose, a discussion on altzheimer’s, ah, we’re all gonna die. Sitting in a room and typing, might not really work against altzheimer’s, gotta do those crossword puzzles. The show is part of the BRAIN SERIES, pretty interesting stuff. But, hey, gotta go outside, have some fresh air, no more snow outside, no more rain, just the freshness of a Vancouver day, it is 2:57. We have 15150, should make it to 16 thousand, author here ponders, if typing away is the way to go or if a walk in the fresh air will propel her writing. Writing is all about time management, it is not about creative juices or whatever, it is a craft, a very technical undertaking, how many words per second, that is how it goes down, goes down. An ad for chucky cheeses, phone ringing, gotta stop, stop. Now: CURIOUS GEORGE. Maybe not that age-appropriate. --------------------------------------She is listening in to CAROLINE IN THE CITY, in german no less, she somehow cannot open both the word file and the film in another window, so she just listens in to the laugh tracks and to the german talkings and to CURIOUS GEORGE on the telly. So this is how writing goes these days, she should go to the next coffee shop, that is where great texts are produced, she has 15305, so, at least her writing marches forward. -------------------------------------------------------------------On the telly, golden girls, outside the freshness of a february evening, her walk thru the neighbourhood, her shopping for 2 milky ways, the double-pack, the britishish woman who smiled at her, apparently she was nostalgic and thought that there is a certain homey feel when you buy overpriced chocolate from the UK. Nope, that is not it, the portions are smaller and they were out of the single pack. Somehow, author here is slightly pissed off, at everything, especially at the fact 43

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that she is so far behind in her writings. She still has to transcribe a lot of long hand notebooks which she hates to do, she finds all kinds of reasons for procrastination, she can pen two more novels before she starts typing those longhand tombs up. On the telly, the usual, seems to be a documentary about greenhouses, interesting, this is how one fills one’s Friday night, by watching tv and by typing words and by being happy about the wordcount. Gotta reach 16000, well, at least, at the very very least. There should be more interesting programs than this documentary; it is all about three scruffy guys in Stetsons who talk about stuff, she has to find another program, how about some more of caroline in the city, in japanese this time. Or something like HERMAN’S HEAD. Or MY THREE DADS. All the sitcoms that nobody remembers. Or gilligan’s island, anyhoo, let us write and type and write some more. caroline in the city it is, in german. New year’s party or Sylvester as the fahrvergnuegen crowd calls it. It is time to go down to the starbucks on arbutus and to sip a peppermint tea, one needs to look at the cars that drive by, the night outside, one needs a big bucket of vanilla ice cream or at least a small one, some ben and jerry, some haagen dazs. It is too hot in here, and it is boring, yep, slightly, slightly, slightly -----------------------------------------Now jeopardy on the telly, fun fun fun. A new title for this her text, how about TV-Guide, after all, it is definitely inspired by what is on the telly. A mc donald’s ad, she feels like taking a walk to the local micky d’s , a strawberry sundae. But, hey, gotta type, gotta type, gotta type. 300 more words, 300 more words, 300 more words. ----------------------------------44

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The final jeopardy answer was kurt vonnegut junior, something about slaughterhouse five, kinda funny that alex trebec said the junior after vonnegut’s name, that is the first time author here has heard it like that. The question was about literary biographies and the term “and so it goes”. Anyhoo, now there is ice-hockey on the telly. Author here needs some more words, some more words, some more words. --------------------------------Now it is a program where blair underwood looks into ancestry.com stuff, genealogy stuff, he was on Anderson today, too, in a program about genealogy. Seems to be the next big thing, anyhoo, let us type, let us type. Type. 200 more words, fast and fast and fast. --------------------------Some more words, some more words. an ad for mayonnaise, a parmesan chicken recipe and now a mascara ad, only from maybelline. Dan-active, apparently a drinkable yoghurt. A fashion magazine ad. A dove ad. Some cartoons, a song, mini-wheats, with strawberries, an ad for the Oscars. Breakfast television. We need 100 more words, words. -------------------------------------------------------And still another ad, she types, looks at the little blue number, that indicates the word count, an Xbox-360 ad, dove-shampoos, and now, fido. Mc-Donald’s, an ad for BC. The BC job plan, 90 more words, 90 more words. ----------And still blair underwood’s film.

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Seventy more words, seventy more words. ah, to watch the idiot box and to write and to write. the telly dictating its words to the poet. So weird, so very very strange. And a pizza commercial and a brita filter ad and a tic tac ad. Once more a mc donald’s ad, seventeen more words, seventeen, seventeen, sevebteen. Twelve, eleven. ----------------------------------Let us finish this, finish this, finish this. And 16 000 it is, it is, it is. --------------------------february 25- and we have 16015. A too windy morning, Saturday, she made her way to starbucks, the obligatory banana loaf and pike place, she jammed her car beside this truck, anyhoo, it is back to the salt mines again, the salt mines that don’t pay. But, hey, you can do this in your pj’s, more or less, writing does not need fancy attire, but it seems, author here is getting a persona like the painter who dresses up in a three piece suit and goes down the elevator with the nine to five crowd, only to go back to his own place to do his work at the kitchen table. Anything to muster up the regularity of the work world, anything to uniform one’s life into a regimented set, tough to be employed at self, it needs discipline, the stuff that nobody seems to have, have, self-discipline, hmm, elusive stuff, elusive, elusive. Author here, still has no plot and, apparently, she never will, we are working without a plot here, do not need it, we will; fly free, make up words, while we go while we go. Every day will be a new story, 2000 words, that are put together in a new way, something like that, something of that kind. The writer and her words, while watching tv, while looking up CAROLINE AND THE CITY on the computer, while doing research on THE BIG BANG THEORY. The sounds and the sights of situation comedies, they dictate their stories to her, 46

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they are as much inspiration as the works of the classics, whatever they are whatever whatever. In a world of constant texting, her words should be able to hold their own, hold their own. And we type and we type and we type. Against the total mess in this place, the disarranged pots, an old empty spritzer bottle, the bread maker, the still empty milk-gallon- container, the blinking clock that gives the wrong time. It is a Saturday, neatness is far away, the storm outside is too much, too much. We need 1500 more words here, at least, at least at least. Author looks down at the papers that should go into the recycling, now there is something to describe, something, something. Ah, to write to write. Maybe writers need a group, their own cohort, in order to succeed, succeed. They need groupies, maybe, maybe. Nope, writing is a solitary endeavour, so is reading, the words have to be perfect and stand on their own, whether they are lauded or despised. Somehow the logic of her words is interrupted, which is fine. We have enough words to take us thru the day here, day here. 25 days of writing, 15 000 words, do the math, how many words per day, how many how many. And we type here we type here type here type here. Against the agony of boredom, against the acting up in the right shoulder, ah, need some more words and need some more words. and 16506 we have, we have. -------------------------------------------------------------------Let us rename this once more, how about VANCOUVER THE NOVEL, is in sync with all the new york the novel paris the novel London the novel anycity the novel books, author just saw one prominently displayed in the quaint little bookstore on 41st. the bookstore was actually brimming, not so quaint anymore, author went to the little French bakery next to it, picked up a GALETTE something from there, the lady behind the counter chirped, oh, it has raspberry and almond cream in it, author rushed home, the galette was a tad too flakey, but good good good. So, this is what writers do, they take brisk walks, pick up pastry, they come home, fire up the computer, write some 47

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words, go out again, ah, the dowdiest of existences, dowdiest of art forms, all with grey hair in a bun, all with being unsociable, no glamour for a writer, none and none and none. So, maybe, author here is not a writer after all, she does not even have a plot, she just heaps on random words, is more a bricklayer or something, a builder of a house of cards, something like that something of that kind. A slight composer a poet without poems. A nonsensical illogical writer writer writer. Author here feels she wants to be somewhere else, where life is happening, a tad more than here, she will just spellcheck this,. Enough of the writing torture, enough and enough and enough. and 16 763 it is it is. ----------------------------------------------in the art school. Outside the noise, the music, the crowds of the winterruption festival, the march music, the drumming, the costumes, the birds on stilts, the circus atmosphere, inside here the quietness of the library, the total opposite of what is happening outside. The pensiveness of the writer, there is a conference going on, there is so much happening outside, an exhibition, the various venues of the festival, the complete and utter opposite of the moments of writing, the silence, the hush hush in the back, but what do I care, gotta type and type and type, amass some words, amass amass amass. Nothing to say any more, gotta join life, enough words, enough enough. Clapping in the back, apparently there is a tour happening, author wonders, hopefully they will not suddenly descend on her quiet writing slash typing place here. Let us stop this and spellcheck fast and fast and fast. 16 924 it is it is it is. -------------------------------------------------------------some more words, so very fast, the letters are way too huge, and this is the computer that does not capitalize the letters, anyhoo, author walked thru the industrial design students’ exhibition, it was 48

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really really good, it had these extremely good and interesting ideas, a reconfiguration of a walker with the walker part in the back of the user not in the front and it had a storage place in the light, author here can not really describe it adequately, this is when a picture is worth a thousand words. anyhoo, let us type, fast fast, before going on to explore the winterruption fest, just need to write some more words, some more words. this typewriter sucks, it just is so very conducive to typos, you cannot really hit the right keys, thus, gotta change the typer, the typing machine. anyhoo, 17074 it is it is it is. -----------------there were problems with opening and downloading this file, main reason being that the central library uses OPEN OFFICE, but, hey, there is a way around it, you go to open office and open the file in there, then you can start typing, anyhoo, the words that author here could have typed up, typed up. For some reason, the font here in this window is Cambria, author ponders, ah, she can change that in the very end, once her masterpiece is finished, besides, she uses all these different softwares on all these different computers all over town, they are all compatible, but, there are always slight glitches, slight compatibility issues. She is once more sitting on the fourth floor of the downtown library, typing away, typing away. Who knows about the word count, who cares, who really really cares. Her words, ah, her words her words. The noise of the escalator in the back, rumpling and rolling along. And we type here type here type here. It is three fifty-five, there are 38 minutes left on this computer, she needs 700 more words. All these numbers, that is the subject matter of her text, a too thin subject, nothing profound, nope, nope. Just a training of using the key board, fast typing, fast typing. Just a training of your writing chops, of pressing down the keys, without saying much, without without. But, hey, have more words already, already. There are more pressing issues, there sure are, there sure are. Outside of the library, an anti-war demonstration, 49

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author just signed the petition, made her way up to the writing place here. Petition signing, such a useless endeavor. Nobody listens to petitions, it seems it seems. The silent minorities, the silent majorities, how can ordinary citizens have any clout? Grassroots movements, ah, good luck with that good luck good luck good luck. Apathy is not her thing, but neither is activism. Not good not good not good. And we type, type, type, to feel the illusion that we make a difference here. Yeah, a difference in typing, pushing down keys, this better be good, better be good, better be good. ----------------------------------------------------february 27- so, what are you up to these days, eh? dunno, just working on my amazing texts, I guess. Just writing, ah, just writing. Author here is, ah, so tired, well, tired is not the right word, she is more feeling queasy or something, something on the stomach fluish side. Yey, and oscars it was, yay, yay. Ah, A SEPARATION, won and won and won. How can you even start to describe our collective feelings? Yay, the person next to author here is perusing the oscar sites, it is so funny, there aRE PEOPle in this town who have no clue that it was oscar nite, and there are others who watched each and every red carpet preview. Hey, that is life, life. Author still has a hangover headache, without even having had a sip of wine, there are still residues of throbbing headache, but, hey, just type, type, it will go away eventually, eventually. Walk thru the fresh air, surrounded by the wind 'tween the skyscrapers, for some reason a too perfumed woman with thick lipstick is sitting now next to author here, the whiff seems to go away, anyhoo, let us write, fast and fast and fast. 45 more minutes, woman next to author here is really annoying, she takes some hair and flips it to the side of author, stop that, u kau, stop it, stop it. And we're typing and typing and typing.

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Some more words, ah, some more words. February is slowly coming to its end, we have 17772 words here, should do a reading, a reading. Author is still in oscar mood, how come, oscars are given out and we have to all go back to our own private lives. Collective moments are over, fast and fast and fast. And let us type and type and type. She is outta words, the lady next to her is actually nice, her lipstick has the right pink, not too red and not too pink, and she types too, yay, and we write here, write here. It is five oh eight, there are 40 minutes left on this machine, author's parking expires at six. The chinese man with the beige leather jacket and the long hair smiles at his [laptop, author types and types and types. A woman in pink eats her banana in the distance, a man in blue olympics coat, over his key board, key board. Ah, the library, the library. Big, colossal columns, this is where we write, write,. Each and every day, each and every day. Author is happy, she lost two pounds, because of her stomach flue, she feels like crap, but, hey, to lose some weight, some weight. And we have 17 920, go to 18 thou, fast and fast and fast. Feel as if you have accomplished something, as if you ran the distance, fast and fast and fast. Some stop, some save and some spellcheck, spell check. Yay, I come and I write, each and every day, each and every day. Oh, are you published, nope, but I will be, yay, yay, yay. It is nice to talk to oneself, so normal, so utterly utterly normal. Ah, to have an imaginary friend, or even better, to have a horde of imaginary friends, hey, and to avoid being committed, to boot, ah, to boot. And 18 025 we have, we have, we have. ----------------------------------------------------------------------february 29, february 29. On the telly, a “stretch your food budget” show, did you know that you can freeze buttermilk or milk. It is seven fifty in New York, it is four fifty here on the west coast. Author is doing her laundry, somehow her inner clock is disrupted, she sleeps at ten in the evening and wakes up at three in the morning, must be old age, you need less sleep the older you get, which 51

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is kind of good. Might as well not fight it and live your life accordingly. If you can function perfectly fine with less sleep, why not why not. Anyhoo, it is a leap year, what happens to people whose birthday is on February 29th? People who are 70, but have had only 17 birthdays? Anyhoo, let us type, type, type, type some more. Oprah’s pad in New York for sale, Ben Affleck has a new baby, the news in nyc is now talking about celine dion. And now something about snooky, author here actually saw snooky and Anderson cooper in august, except for that she did not know snooky at that time. Does snooky know her. Author here knows that her syntax is out of whack, ah, it always is, always is. How about using the wrong grammar as stylistic gimmick, should work, should do, do. Think of the book titles : “I am American and so can you” or “who am I and if how many?”. A Canadian woman jumped on the subway railing in nyc and was struck by 3 trains, author should listen to the vancouver news, but it is too soon, it is still five in the morning, whereas it is eight in nyc, so it is kinda weird to listen in to the east coast news while you are on the westcoast- surreal, slightly surreal, very very very surreal. And 18 three two oh it is, it is. -------------------------------------------------------finally, march 1. She has written all through February, she has 18 000 or so words, she is sitting in the desolate library in the art school. What if this is as good as it gets, what if typing up texts is all she can hope for. The loneliness of the long distance runner, the author looks it up on the other computer, lets it run on its you-tube clips, though it does not really look like she remembers it, all, author here can remember, is Tom Courtney in a hoodie, in fog, close-up, pissed-off face. The film was made in 1962, author goes back to her own computer station, can feel the chewing gums under the table. Feels kinda disgusting to touch other people’s gum, there is a yuck-moment that you cannot escape. And we type here, type here, type here. Better wash your hands, better, better. On the other monitor, the final scene, Tom Courtney, so near to the end, standing still, letting the other 52

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runner pass, even bowing to him, the victory is all yours, all yours, while the crowd is screaming for him, run, run, run. He let the team down, decidedly, refused to do this, did not care about the glory of outrunning, outdoing. Anyhoo, we type here, type here. 18541, 18541. Ah, the jadedness of easy winners, that one, that one, that one, that one. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------dissensus means difference of opinion, author here just looked it up. Today is the last day for sending out her application to grad school, she is not sure if she should go through with it. The application fee is extremely steep, not the tuition fee, though. But, hey, who wants to live on the other side of the world for 48 months, who needs that kind of adventure. When you can sit in front of a computer and just type and type and type and type and type. Yeah, who, who? ----------------------------------------------------------------nine people in Russia, author checked the audience part for her pathetic little blog, seems that 9 persons checked out her blog in Russia, in February, two in germany, the rest in the US and Canada. And some more in the uk or some other country in Europe. Cool, huh, to sit in an armchair and be connected in cyberspace. I feel like james bond here, yay, yay, yay, yay. And to think that I did not even board an airplane, what with turbulence and all. And 18739 it is, it is, it is, it is, it is. --------------------------------------------------------------------------Ah, to figure out this computer, took author here forever to locate the downloaded file, that happens when you walk all over town and use all kinds of computers, they are all slightly different, they have different storage systems, so it seems, seems, seems. It is official, author here did not send her application for grad school out, basically, because she chickened out, the idea of living

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somewhere on the other side of the world, all by herself is not that fascinating, the novelty is great, the boredom and loneliness might grip her by the throat, though, so, she did the meek thing, the angsty thing, the laugh into the face of the NOTHING VENTURED NOTHING WON paradigm, in short she chose to be a lazy layabout and just stay put here in vancity, roaming the tried and true, ah, how utterly boring, how utterly boring. She could ahave seen the world, but nope, she did not send her stuff in, in time, she did not lose money, so much is true, because, how do you know they will accept her, well, now it is too late, too late, too late. Her stuff has to be in by tomorrow, seems that that is not possible, possible. And so it is so it is so it is, is. 18969, 18970. Yay, once more, once more, once more, once more, once more. ---------------------------------------------------It seems to be march 2, it is friday, outside the drizzle that makes and breaks Vancouver, not that that sentence makes any sense but it sounds good and that is all we want here, want here. Author is back in the community college on 49th. It is morning, slightly desolate, at least for this place which is always brimmimg with people, anyhoo, author here types and types and types. She has to be fast, she has to go back to the mall, her parking expires, she has to take it away from its roof place near the BAY, because, you know, you are only allowed to park in oakridge for 4 hours, that is why, we have to type, fast and fast and fast here. 19 105 words, it took her a month, all of February, to fashion twenty thousand words, in November, she was a fulltime student and did 40 000 in one month, while querying 60 agents, while writing her essays, while travelling to Toronto. If no one breathes down your neck, you are not going to put in the work, the work. Ah, life without deadlines, it is just stagnation, stagnation. You gotta self-impose those deadlines, make sure you meet them, run, haste, from appointment to appointment. Today she will take in two shows in the evening, two openings, her art teacher in first year told the class, you gotta go to those awkward 54

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openings, everybody feels awkward, everybody holds onto their wineglasses (wrong grammar), but you gotta do the network thingie, gotta, gotta,. Well, maybe, she was right, maybe, she wasn’t, who knows, who knows, who knows. Author here can see the little glass gallery studio thingie from here, apparently, they are getting ready for tonite, for tonite. And we type here, type here, type here. Still some more words, still some more words. While the rain is coming down, drizzly, pensively. What is new in the news these days, author does not even look at the newspaper, cnn does its own thing, author lives in her own little world of errands, the like the like the like. You know, getting outta bed, doing laundry, taking showers. Like a cat that gets up and licks herself, weird, ah, strange and strange and strange and strange. And we type, fast and furiously, fast and furiously, fast and furiously, she prepared all her transcripts, her letter of intent, another letter of motivation, she outlined her research project, typed her CV, everything, took a passport pic, everything is ready and spread all over the kitchen table, only to be never sent, never sent. The date , yep, the last, last date was march 2. So she cannot send it in, she just missed the deadline, barely, barely. thus she will live the next two years here in this city, she will not live overseas to get a masters, she will just type up her stuff, do this do this do this. Might as well, might as well. So, yeah, grad school in zurich, that did not work out, there is still the school in nyc, but, bottom-line, it is all way too expensive, expensive. The good thing with Europe is that the schools are usually free, no tuition, but at a very basic point, author here, does not know if she wants to work with people who tell her what to research and how to research it. She’d rather work by herself, have total creative and scholastic control, the caveat being, of course, you are too free flowing and have to have enough self-discipline to get the work done, done. Like losing weight on your own, like hitting the gym, each and every day, without a personal trainer, without a personal trainer. You are a grown up, you should do it in time, in time, you should type up your book, then sell it, sell it.

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Author here, is not quite sure, if she described stuff correctly, seems, she never does, never does. Outside, the drizzle, the drizzle, the drizzle. 19 642, ah, words and words and words. It is eleven oh one, she might as well finish this, go for the kill, go 4 da kill. The woman at the other computer annoys her, basically, because her typing speed is the same one as author’s here, so you have to either slow down or type faster, it is too weird and strange to synchronize the typing speeds, typing speeds. And we type here, type here, type here. A short discussion about the gallery thingie outside, for moments, moments. And we type, we type, we type. Gotta hit 20 000, and anyword would do, will do, should do. 762 to 1000, that is about 250 words, how insightful should they be, in a novel, they are mostly fillers, fillers. Like in a film, when the camera just swoops over a seasidelandscape, there is not much action in a slow novel, there are all those slowly resonating pausing places, like in a painting, where you take in the matte specs in between the stark contrasty thingies, author ponders, if that is what her art writing has come to, this is how you describe a painting after ten long years of art school, art school. And we type here, type here, type here. The little blue light on the black computer thingie, seems today, THINGIE is the best we can use, the man with the blue t-shirt walks by, the library here is happening, so slowly, so slowly, so slowly. This is not the place to fashion great literature, it is way too sleepy, too inconspicuous, we cannot write great stuff here, the sleepiness of this day is too overt, too overt,. Ah, the failure to write great stuff, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli, whatever that means, whatever, ever that might mean, mean. Someone slurfs his sneakers by, over the green carpet, author looks up, it is the same person in the blue t-shirt, someone laughs, more like a snort, the day, ah, the day, the day, the day. Three more words, ah, yay, hooruh, twenty thou, twenty thou. Twenty thou. And we might as well be outta here, outta here, outta here. 20 022, yay and yay and yay. ------------------------------------56

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she is now in the library at the art school, someone coughs, twice, short, someone types, someone whispers in the distance, a throaty laugh, outside drizzle, it is six minutes after two, and there is that double-cough again. stories of banality, an everyday, so it seems, so it seems. no actionhero, no actionheroine either. noone whisking in hanging from a chandelier, someone in a black coat going to a studio in the back, there is the noise of paper knistering, there are all the new words that she makes up here, there is nothing going on, nothing, nada, zip, zilch. just a writer typing, because, you know, if you want to get somewhere, you have to get in here and write and write and write. which is kinda weird and strange, you need a subject matter, an outline, something like that, something of that kind. you cannot just meander thru the city, from computer to computer, aimlessly, you have to write about bigger issues, graver issues. you cannot do this do this, just stare at the T-key, where the vertical line is missing, and you are about to miss the T and make a typo, each and every time, that is not what you are supposed to write about, now are you, are you? a man or a woman in olive green, at the computer next to her, and we are typing here, typing, typing. 20250 words, her back hurts, from the fall in the snow, she might have broken something, ah, who knows, who knows, who knows. ---------and, once more, back in the library, after a so very fast and hasty walk thru her old digs, everything seems slightly changed, the mixing table is in another room, the light tables are reconfigurated, the students are different ones, newer ones. Ah, animation, animation. Well, we take what we learned there and apply it to literature, should work, should work. Still dabbling in non-narrative, in selfportraits, in just describing the status of the formgiver, well, in this case, the writer. Short stints at the typing machine, with fast fast walks in between all these typing stints. Like making a

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clockwork work, that is how it seems. The machine will run, once you pulled the cord. And we type, yay and yay anf yay. 24013, 20415. Yay and yay, yay. --------------------------------------------------------------------need some more words here, need some more words here, how tough can it be, to fill these pages, ah, these pages. Outside, the gloominess that walks by, somehow, this sentence is just another senseless sentence, one that tries to be poetic, too hard, way, way, way too hard. Yep, outside, the ocean factory, against the grey sky, that one light up there, illuminating the sky, slowly, silently. Would be better to take a pic, instead of using words to describe this, but seems, author here only has words, words, yep, words are all she has to take her pictures, gone are the days when she painted, drew, took pictures, nowadays, it is words and words and words and words. The dowdiest of artforms, so it still seems, still seems. And we type here, type here type here. Against the boredom of the day, against the library that is filling up with people, the talkings, the chitterchatter. We have to write here, write here, make that book already, one of the many books that sail through cyberspace, that no one will ever read, ever, ever, ever, ever. And 20 608 we have, we have, we have. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------On the telly, an ad for hidden valley ranch, now an ad for jack in the box breakfast food, now Gwen Stefani and a mascara ad. We have 20 645, there is nothing to describe here, except for one of these many sitcoms, in this case KING OF QUEENS. ------------------------------------

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March 3- on the telly a show named nate something, it is an interview with lisa lang, it is kind of difficult to type and watch what is going on on the television monitor, it seems as if author here cannot really concentrate on the typing or on the interview, which is kind of liberating, to somehow live in these two differing worlds of perception, you do not really commit to any of them, which might then be used as an excuse for why the writing lacks structure or correct syntax or, for that matter, correct wording. But, hey, writing, is always so fickle, you have no clue, why you chose certain words and not others, it is the same in painting, in drawing, one chooses lines that one has used before and hopes that it will look nice, aesthetically pleasing, and usually we tend to mimic ways of putting down lines (in the case of drawing) or paint(in the case of painting) in ways that one has done before. There are always endless ways to put together elements to fabricate a bigger unit, be it words in the case of writing, be it pigments in the case of painting, be it different images in the case of animation. Anyhoo, there is a cooking show now on the telly, it is still part of the nate something show, a woman posits that tomato soup and grilled cheese are really typical American food for her, she now shows how to make the tomato soup, oh, and the recipe will be on their website, the nateshow, and now she shows how to make a monte christo sandwich, she uses cranberries and puts it on a sandwich, one side cranberry, mayo and mustard on the other side, and cheese in the middle. Now, she dumps the sandwiches into an eggwash, she puts chilly paste into the eggwash, she uses cream, butter, this is not really that weight conscious, now it is all griddled up on the, well, griddle, and now, it is about blueberry and apple pie, this show is a morning show on the east coast, it is 3 in the night here, but it is 6 in the morning on the east coast, thus, author here feels pangs of jet lag without even leaving her armchair, you can live in different time zones without even leaving your home, ah, weird, ah strange. Lord Byron could not do that, how did he fashion his poetry, ah, to write and write and write. We have 21 062 words here, nothing really

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consequential, and now it is about making the apple and the blueberry pie, the lady on the telly is making the piecrust, icewater, flour, butter, it is nice, not a piecrust with lard, but with butter, the lady is showing the nate guy how to make all of this stuff. Author here feels like making a pie, while watching this, the problem of course is what do you do with the pie once it is in the fridge and it is calling you, calling you. So you should go online and look under thenateshow and there are the recipes, make your own pie, make your own pie. And now a life insurance ad, for some reason author here sees a lot of ads for old people, apparently she watches a lot of old people’s shows. And we type and type and type here. 21 232, 21 232, 21 232. Actually, 21 246 it is, it is. 21 252. Tornadoes on the telly, rick santorum, ah, boring, boring, superboring, boring. -----------------------------Ten thirty-nine, in the morning, in the coffeeshop on arbutus, wedged between two other persons working on their stuff, a student-like person that reads her papers and does not use a laptop and another person in red, who uses a laptop, though a much smaller one than author here. Her laptop is an anachronism, bulky, no whiff of sleekiness, a relict from another time. Her font is way too big, too, she put it on 150 per cent, the letters are there to be deciphered by an old person, one that cannot read small, small fonts. The woman on the overhead, yelling, eartha kit-like, steven tylerlike. She sings on and on, screams, nobody knows what she said, oh, apparently, she doesn’t want you, she is the proptotype of the woman who puts her whole life into fighting against THE MAN, she has not put her life into advancing science, technology, the like, the like. No mit 4 u here, here. Well, neither did author here, her land is the land of words, reluctantly, ah, so reluctantly, reluctantly. And we type here type here type here. 23 500, something like that, something of that kind. Might as well drink up your tea, fish the piece of chocolate out of your purse, something like that, something of that kind. Last year at this time, author did her illustration projects, in the 60

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illustration class, she did paintings, but those times seem to be long over, now we type, type, type. There will be a talk about women in science, at langara, might as well watch that, watch that. Author here has to see, what the date is, yep, why not, why not why not. Ah, the life of an unpublished writer, so weird, so very, very strange. We have 21 and six hundred, stop, stop, stop, the battery will run out, run out, run out, run out, run out. --------------------------------------------Seems, one cannot use the wi-fi here, this is just a typing machine, u gotta plug this in or something, thus, just type away, type away. Make sure u save it, the little battery icon is only half full, half full. The time is now fifty-seven minutes after ten, still in the morning, the morning. A Saturday that is happening, here in the coffeeshop on arbutus, slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly. The regulars chiming in, a child crying and stomping her feet, you never get what you want, what you want. Ah, to vent one’s frustrations, reluctantly, reluctantly, reluctantly, reluctantly, reluctantly. And 21 700 it is, it is, it is. -----------------------------------------------------------There is a significant chunk of writing on her computer at home, she will later have to copy and paste it into this text, it is about 600 words or so, maybe 500, the ones that she produced in the coffeeshop on arbutus, for 20 minutes straight, for 20 minutes straight. Her laptop had problems there, she could not e-mail her text to herself, she did not know how to use the internet in the coffeeshop. Seems, everybody else knew how to do it, anyhoo, author is now sitting once again in the community college on 49th, typing and typing and typing and typing some more, some more. She has to send queries out for this, this her novel will be finished fast, if she puts in the time, the time, she can title it SONGS TO A TELEVISION. Which is kinda weird. She does not constantly 61

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type while watching stuff on the telly, she types more stuff in the libraries, all the libraries in town. She meanders from computerstation to computerstation., but she did that already, already. The songs in spring of 2012, this better be good, better be good, better be good. Author here is doing this now for four years straight, her ventures into lit land are dilettante at best, she is not published yet, and thus, a failure a failure. But, hey, we will publish this in the end, in the end, in the end. And 21 500 we have here, given that there is a chunk of 500 missing, she is actually at 22 000. Not that bad, not that bad. She feels nauseated and lightheaded, this is what typing does to you, does to you, does to you. To type, day-in, day-out, not that good, not that good. A walk in fresh air, a brisk one, so much better better. Outside, there is the tent near the studio slash gallery thingie, apparently remnances of the opening, author here did not attend. She did not feel like it, there were actually two openings going on, they were both very interesting, both had to do with architecture, they were concise, elegant, not the usual I am a bohemian dumbohead mumbo jumbo. Ah, art, art, art. And we type here, fast and fast and fast. Might as well save this, might as well spellcheck this, yay, why not why not why not. Not comma not, ah, not, not. And 21666 it is it is. Yay and yay and yay. Yay. -------------------And now it is one and fifty-one. The library is pretty full now, for a Saturday. Seems, everybody has done the Friday nite partying, has slept in and made it to school here. Author is not a student here, but she can use this place as a guest, which is kind of annoying because you have to sit at the same computer all the time, you cannot really move, gotta do your writing in one sitting, so it seems, so it seems. She feels slightly nauseated, seems, she always does these days. And we type here type here type here type here. The library is happening, abuzz, abuzz, abuzz. She can use a tad more of YAY, but, hey, got use a tad less slangy stuff, why not, ah, why not, not. The rhythm of the words is slightly off, language is not music, now is it, is it. 62

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In front of the telly, TOMORROW NEVER DIES, yay, yay, SEAN CONNERY or PIERCE BROSNAN, the eternal question, it is not in the hamburg part yet. Oh, and there it is, the most significant line of the film: “William Randoph Hearst told his photographers: You provide the pictures, I provide the war”, nothing has changed now, has it, has it. And we type here, type and type and type and type some more, some more. Gotta run, gotta watch some action packed fireworks on the telly, yeah, that kind and that kind and that kind. The music, loud, the constant shootings, 22 356 words, yay and yay and yay and yay. Abandon ship, abandon ship. Ah, to watch james bond and to type while watching. An x-finity ad, a state farm ad, a lenscrafters ad, no wait, a vision quest ad, a law firm ad, a rent-a-center ad, a furniture ad with the model, whose name author here forgot, the one who was married to Richard Gere, now, a green giant ad, seems, author here knows a lotta useless trivia, and there it is, james bond again, again. Can’t say anything against pierce brosnin, now, can we, can we. And let us type and type and type and type and type. The bad guy in this film used to be in the infinity ads, the film is now fifteen years old, ah, where has time gone, time gone, find something new to do with our time here, writing, typing, the like, the like, the like. And 22 523 it is, it is, it is. It is. -------------------------------------------I will not tolerate insubordination, she says, another scene in still another james bond movie, they all smush together now, do they, do they, author here tries to decipher, when she saw this film, how many years ago, how many, many, many years ago. She tries to apply checks and balances, to her own life, to her art career, that never was, and, as it seems right now, never will be, just keep on writing, maybe that will go somewhere, though the words are supposed to dance in unison, they

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are supposed to make sense, have some kind of splashes of inner logic, whatever that is, whatever that is. There is something to be said for writing and typing, while you are basically stepping out into the cold, while you have not read the classics, or not the right classics, there is something to be said for readers of a foreign language, who are then taught English by listening to pop songs and by watching the telly, the writing will be different, ah, who cares, who cares, who cares. And we type here, type here, type here, while pierce brosnan is skiing in azarbaijan, while the azery in the film is so very different from the azery that the author speaks, ah, weird, ah strange, and we type here, type here, type here. Typing while watching james bond, ah, this better be good, better be good, better be good. Look into my eyes, everything is alright, well, pierce brosnan cannot be wrong, not with that accent, not with that face. And we type here, type her, type here. 22783, ah well, ah well, ah well. -----------------------------------Shaken not stirred, yay and yay and yay. ---------------------------march 4- how to type while watching james bond, the most recent incarnation of the title of this text, might as well, might as well. It is 2 in the night, not exactly the time that a writer should pen her words, after doing research about ian fleming’s life, after watching 2 james bond movies, after reading an interview with Sebastian faulks, after this, that and the other. She now can be tested on the lives of sean connery and pierce brosnan, on the lives of the producers of the bond franchise, on anything 007. Anyhoo, let us type some more words, apparently ian fleming made sure he wrote 2000 words per day, that is how you write a novel, a novel. Just like a nanowriter, a participant in national novel writing month, anyhoo, each writer is different, on the telly ocean eleven, George 64

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Clooney, Julia Roberts. Today seems to be the day for thrillers, no Seinfeld, no big bang, just people who say stuff very dramatically, who are in yellow, orange lights, against a black backdrop. Author is not quite sure if this was the film she saw in central park, she remembers George Clooney, it was a film based in vegas, but apparently there are two ocean movies. And now, the Bellagio, ah, the fountains, in the night, now brad pitt, a group of men staring at the fountains, listening to the music, ah, the musical fountains, yeah, this is the same movie she saw in central park, the one where everyone leaves the place in front of the Bellagio, or something like that, something like that. Films with a lot of men playing in there, ah, not that interesting, not that much not that much. The male psyche, ah, who cares, who cares, who cares. We have 23 000 here, not bad, not bad, not bad. Ah, to type in the middle of the night, this better be good, better be good, better be good. We still don’t have an outline here, no plot, no plot at all. Just all these keys on the keyboard, the buttons on the remote control, next to the laptop, who makes all these buttons that are just waiting to be pushed down, what a weird, weird line of work, ah, work. Would be nice to be paid to do this, how much longer do we just have to type, until it goes somewhere, somewhere. Ah, the creative industries, not exactly worth pursuing, not and not and not. Not. And now, the credits, two arrows in white from each side, music fast, fast, it is two thirty-three, and we type here, type here type here. The words get counted, fast and fast, 23 254 it is, it is, it is. -----------------------------------------Ah, eleven eleven in the morning. A quick shower, a quick foray to the coffeesop on arbutus, the usual feeding and now back to the laptop, the laptop. Apparently ian fleming would write 1000 in the morning and 1000 in the afternoon, and this for two months in Jamaica, each year, each year. Nobody knows if these stories are accurate, descriptions of workways of famous authors, besides, nobody describes the work regimens of the nonfamous ilk, the ones who just stay worker bees 65

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without the glory and the glamour that recognition supposedly brings. Author ponders, she is female, so, in the lesser minds of most lesser people, her achievements are supposed to manifest themselves in a clean house, a svelte figure and various whiffs from the kitchen. So it seems so it seems so it seems, but, hey, dream on dream on, wishful thinking that will not succeed, has not to, has not do. Hey, my name is not germaine greer, battles have been won already. Nowadays the sky is the limit etcetera etcetera etcetera. 23 500, give some take some, might as well hit 25 thou, today, ah, today, today. Author watered the plants, kind of wonkyish, though, not good enough, not good, not good, the two bigger ones should be watered less frequently, so the instructions say, say. We are better with typing here, no green thumb 4 you, none, none, none. Author ponders, it is a Sunday, the mall is awaiting, awaiting, singing its siren song from afar, afar. Writing, ah, the dowdiest of artforms, sans glamour and the like, you gotta get out, especially if you are a writer, you have to glance at people’s faces. Or you have nothing to say, nada, zilch. Gotta get out, stare at people, or you will be whisked away, whisked away. After all, writing might be a solitary confinement occupation, but you need to connect with the potential reader, you need to be in the world, definitely in the world. Author here feels like going to the casino, yay, yay, that is where stuff is happening, happening, besides she read a lot about casino royal the night before, she saw ocean eleven, she might as well make her way to the mock Bellagio in Richmond, everything and anything to waltz thru a mass of people, you gotta get out, away from your study aka the kitchentable, yay and yay and yay. Venture out, you quasi-writer, the world is awaiting, time to write less bullshittish and bullshittish. And 23 680 it is, it is, it is. She closes her eyes, sees herself reading in the upstairs at union square, in the flagship store of barnes and noble, yay and yay and yay. Yay. To be a little more concise, we are referring here to the reading series called UPSTAIRS IN UNION SQUARE, in the union square in nyc, author was there on the day just before the

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hurricane in august, but, hey, that is another story, another one, another one. Ah, might as well stop, might as well stop. For now 4 now, NoW. ---------------------------------And once more, back in the community college on 49th, this time at a different station, a woman at the other computer, typing, ah, typing. Author here wants to retitle this text, she does it each and every day, at least once. How about EXPAT, somehow it seems to have a higher market value than something about TV, the memoirs of a couchpotato have a certain yuck-factor in a country that does not read. And we type here, type here, type here. Should be able to reach 25 thou, by the end of the day, the end of the day. Though, her days kind of smush together, her circadian cycle is kinda erratic, maybe that is what creative people do, so she tells herself, tells herself. After all, there is not much new in her subject matter, she is outta ideas, anyways, and hey, writing is so very tedious, that is why one has to liven it up by changing one’s sleeping patterns, at random, at random. Writing is all about repetition, you have to type and type and then type some more, some more. Day-in, day-out, day-in, day-out, day-in, day-out. Would be good to start a meetup group, but, hey, the organization of that will just take her away from her writing, thus, might as well do this, pretty solitarily, solitarily. At least, she is not sitting at home, she cannot really get claustrophobic or agoraphobic, what with her constant meandering and whiffing thru the city, from computerstation to computerstation, day-in, day-out, day-in, day-out, day-in, day-out. She has gained 14 pounds in the last 200 days, that has to come off, she just read an article in men’s health that sitting at a desk makes you die young, well, duh, everybody knows that you have to get exercise. The article was worded actually a tad differently, it was a really good article, I will e-mail it to you, hahaha, just kidding, kidding. Author here is losing it, one brain cell at a time, one and one and one. She hops around between ideas and thougt fragnents, that cannot be good, not that 67

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good, not that good. We have 24 200 now, oh well, ah well, the like the like the like. She was in the casino in Richmond, lost five bucks, well, at least not that much not that much. She had this cranberryloaf and a peppermint chamomile tea, her bartender was this really bored woman with name like Kahlua. Or something, something. Author liked the ceiling in the casino, it looked like the firmament, and she wonders if there is a word like FIRMAMENT. She uses her right middlefinger way too much, when typing, one of these days she should learn how to type with ten fingers, in order to distribute the toughness of the typing to all ten fingers, evenly, evenly. Like a piano player, a piano player. Yep, this is her instrument, not that she is very good at typing, writing the like the like the like. Save it, spellcheck it, word count it, do not barf all over the keyboard, do not dispense dirty looks at the woman with the overbite. Yay and yay and yay. Twenty-four, three oh three, write on, type on, type on. ------------------------------------Ah, might as well feed some more words here to the ah so very hungry machine, while barfing sets in, slowly, reluctantly. Chatter in a tiffy, somewhere behind the PC-PN shelf, laughter, the library is still happening, fast and fast and fast. The smoke outta the student union building, the chilliness of this place, place. Ah, to sit in the community college library, ah, to pen one’s master piece here, here. The one that will not be lauded and/or praised, the one that will never be sold in a bookstore. Yay, that one that one that one. And, lemme tell you, who cares, who cares who cares. Let us just write, let us just type, because that is what we do here, do here. Author looks at her typing, feels weird, she read one too many publishing insiderish blogs, she should not do that, not good not good not good. She ponders what to type slash write about, does she really need to get to the 25 000 mark, fast and fast and fast. What will really be achieved if you type a certain amount of words each and every day, each and every day, will they magically morph into a masterpiece, one that is 68

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there to be read by generations to come, one that will make it into the pantheon, pantheon. Might as well title this PANTHEON, yay and yay and yay. Nothing to say, nothing, nothing. The earthquake risk map on the wide grey column, the green white shirt of the person at the other computer, the one to her right, the polka dotted shawl of the person to her left. Actually it is exactly the opposite, the person to her right has the green white striped shirt and the person to her left has the polka dotty shawl. Person in turban comes by, talks to the green white stripedy person. Woman with black boots walks by, gazelle-like. See, there is so much to describe in here, the books in the bookshelf, red and white and blue, we need 400 more words, 400, 400. Author here has parked her car in the Y, they will not tow it away, now will they, will they? Ah, nah, why would they, why should they? And we type here type here type here. The white-ish pipes on the ceiling. The reddish chairs near the window. Her paint stained sweater, the remnances of nailpolish on her, well, nails. And we type, we type we type. The two blue recycly bins, the day that moves forward, marches forward, the little blue-ish light on the computer, ah, some more words, some more words and some more words. Gotta write some more, gotta write some more. She should go to the third floor, that is where all the great stuff is, stuff from the pantheon, all the books by dead writers, mostly male, mostly with ample amounts of facial hair, yep, that is what makes your words publishable, not the contents, not some kind of substance, nope, it is facial hair, facial hair, preferably black and grey one, yay and yay and yay. Author ponders, there is a paper in there somewhere, a dissertation waiting to be defended, yay and yay and yay. We need approximately 150 more. Fast, ah fast ah fast. It is still chilly here, woman with polka dotted shawl left, the yellow-orange light blinks, gotta write still, write still, this place is pretty filled with worker bees, all humming in this library, outside the trees swiveling in the breeze, yeah, and we type and type and type, here. Person with black and white plaid shirt, moves by, fast, 80 more words, 80, 80, 80. Run fast, to the finish line,

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someone sneezes, too loud, too loud, too loud, an eruption of sneezing, and we type, fast and fast and fast. Save it, motion on, type and type and type. The reflections of the neonlights in the windowglass, a person in black and white walking by, outside, looking in here, pausing for seconds, for moments. Ah, and we write, we type , we type. The right arm starts to hurt, beneath the elbow, too much typing, way too much, way too much. Just to reach 25 000, in spring, in 2012, fast and fast and fast. Her splittering journals, against the cold chillinesss of this February, this March. And 25000 it is, we are outta here outta here. Someone sneezes, someone laughs, someone walks by, in white, in white, in white. ----------------------------------So, she has 25 000, she might as well write some more. On the telly, the new adventures of old Christine, after some big bang and some other constantly moving images. The right music to type to, to write to. A CHASE commercial, in black and white with a tad of baby-blue. This episode is about missions, the ubiquitous coming of age class, the 4th grade project of every student in California. And we type here, type here, type here. Still no plot, still none, none, none. She could take her laptop to the coffeeshop on arbutus, maybe the cars driving down arbutus will just magically translate into some kind of plot. It should be possible, though, to write sans plot. Like abstract painting, yep, non-representational stuff. The big non-narrative. Words are some abstract utterings anyways, open to interpretation, one can just string them together, randomly, and hope for the best, the best. Repetitions always work, they fill up the page, and, hey, that is what we want here, want here. The difficulties of writing, that is subject matter enough, enough. 25255 words, only 800 or so to 26 000. Much less than the nanowrimo 50 000 in one month, but, hey, those are random numbers anyways, that is how it seems, how it seems. The end of the Christine episode, a rerun of many, many. Author here intendedly stays away from watching the news, she’d rather 70

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delve deeply into proven escapist stuff, laughtracks rule, rule. And now, another episode of old Christine stuff, it is always funny and funny is good. Deep thoughts on a flat february eve, yay, that should do it, should, should. Author here has the language to bend it however she feels like, feels like. And we have 25 367 here, here. Might as well, might as well. ---------------------march 5- ah, might as well start typing again. The person next to her blows his nose, a tad too loud, she types and types and types. Gotta put down 2500 words, each and every day, each and every day. Might just get it over with, while this library is till happening, noonish, noonish, on a monday in mid-february, mid-march. Months, days, they all mush together, all she can see is her typing fingers over all those keyboards, and we type here, type here. There are still two volumes in the basement, slightly rotting, maybe, more like wine waiting to be consumed. She is postponing the typing process, hates transcribing, it is weirdly meticulous work, not rife for the impatient, she somehow has to psyche herself into doing it, cannot wait forever, gotta type it up, gotta put it out into the world, gotta work on this weird and strange writingish career. Gotta sell those words, gotta, gotta. And we type here, type here, @ this journal, this non-journal. Someone sneezes in the back, loud, loud. There are two framed landscapes on the wall, two small green pictures, trees or something, not very good, not very good. Might be by emily carr, but, then, author does not like emily carr's work. And we type here, type here. The librarian is hanging more pictures on the wall, or maybe it is the artist, nope, must be the librarian, a woman in a green wooljacket, who suddenly left, did not wait and stand there to be described. A man in grey, with a baseball cap, well, at least, he is walking slowly, like a runway model, author here types and types, woman sneezes, man next to her types, people come up the singing escalator, talking, man next to her sneezes, someone coughs. People here make way too many weird and strange noises, there, someone sneezes again. 71

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A woman in red walks by, slides by. And we type here type here. On the 4th floor in the downtown library, there will be a talk today at 7 o'clock, for prospective childrens' book authors. Author here ponders, she definitely does not write for children, unsuspecting souls should not be subjected to her words, the man in blue next to her definitely sniffles too much, author ponders if she will get some contagious disease from hanging out too much in public places, maybe she should just sequester herself in a room and type and type and type. Her computer at home does not really work that well, she has to come out, has to change out of her pj's, she has to march out into the world, only to write, only to type. Her words are inconsequential, she does not tackle bigger issues, her words are of the non-bigger issue kind. And we type, type, librarian walks by, to put something else on the wall. Apparently it is about science, there is an airplane of some sort hanging there, she is putting up various pictures of buildings, all etchings, very nice, very nice. She does not seem very enthusiastic though, she stands on a little black stool, she is wearing glasses. She has a green shorter jacket over a green longer top, she is wearing black yoga pants with flares, and middle brown suede boots. She has shoulder length hair, somewhere between grey and yellow. Actually there is a helicopter hanging, that seems to be an exhibit that has nothing to do with the building picture exhibit. And we type here, type here, type here. The librarian is coating the whole wall with those images, apparently the cork wall is adhesive, she just puts the images on and then strikes over them with her left hand and they stay glued to the wall, to the pin board. Pinups of buildings. There is a book about small engines and one about bridges, yay, a science exhibit of some kind some kind. The librarian leaves, book in hand, she is some kind of curator librarian, she has a totally pissed-off face, her mouth is open, her green top kind of sits weird over her black pants, in wrinkles, she affixes something with a red uhu stick, walks away, comes back with some kind of beige roll, which she puts up over the exhibit, it has writing on it. On the wall it says CANADIAN

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PACIFIC STUDY AREA, the woman left, which is not nice, author loves to describe her, a curator at work. Curating, it takes two years to study that and get a certificate for that, oh, and there is the librarian again, this time, she does it from the other side. She comes back, walks around the exhibit, rearranges the books. She seems to know exactly what she is doing, no pausing whatsoever. She took the book that she did not like and now she is opening the glass vitrine in the middle of the room, looks at it, this is fascinating, author here, can watch the woman forever, the glassvitrine seems to have some kind of grey vases in there. Or maybe silver toy robots, anyhoo, we type here, type here, type here. Another woman walks by, looks at the vitrine, now observes the other exhibit, she too has a short jacket over a longer top, in black though, she is younger, apparently she is the boss. She looks more artsy than the other one. And we type here, type here, type here. 26310 words, yay and yay and yay. --------------------------------------------------actually, it is 26 333, a nice number if there ever was one, author has another one hour, yay, she can just stay put, and type and type. On the fourth floor of the downtown library, the central library, she can work on her master piece, but, hey, they are all master pieces. There should be a story, there is none, but, hey, didn't we discuss that already, already. It is 1:19, in the afternoon, the afternoon. And we type here, type here, type here. The libararian lady talks to the man who asks questions, anyhoo, we go on typing, typing. Author is not quite sure how many words she typed in already, she does not end her writing at a certain number, she should do this more systematically, tale clear tabs on how much she writes each and every day, so that she knows about her progress, you cannot run wild with all these words, there has to be a system to the madness, madness. Can not just type indiscriminately, gotta have order here, order, order.

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the man next to author blows his nose, someone coughs, outside the sun is shining, a cart with rollers noises around, the machine stares at author here, awaits the words, awaits the words. This keyboard seems to be very nice, it does not hurt the hands, and we type here type here type here. Have 26562 words, she should stop at an even number, to make it more clear, more easy. And gotta type here type here. Obsessively, utterly obsessive. Type, ah, type, ah, type. Woman with red boots, walks by, walks by. The day slumps forward, stoically, stoically. Still have 44 minutes left on this computer, but, hey, there is nothing to write anymore, nothing, nothing, nothing. Gotta play it by ear, like a painter, like a musician. Stop, when it still feels good, still feels good, when you are not stifled by your own words, when you are not stabbed in the back, not gripped by the throat, when you do not yet feel too much like taking the keyboard and smashing it into the monitor, and the person at the other computer is scaring the hell out of writer here, what with his constant talking to himself and with all his bags. Ah, gotta type, gotta type, gotta type. 26717 words, 26727, 26717. ----------------------------------------------------------------On the telly, Kelly Kapour, gotta watch THE OFFICE, not that it actually informs author’s writing here, but, hey, at least there is something going on, to inspire writing, typing, the like, the like. For some odd reason, the numberings of the pages are odd, so is the header, the numbers are in the footer, anyhoo, it is all odd, not even, every other page has the header and the footer, author ponders, how to turn the odder off, there is always something with these softwares, softwares. Now, there is an ad for maine lobsters, for red lobster, author here, types, types, hopes to make it to 30 000 by the end of the day, just have to keep on typing, typing, typing. Ah, to sit hunched over and to peck at all these keys, while the telly is singing its tunes, while a phone solicitor is

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disturbing her typing, while some jehova’s witnesses are at the door. It is pretty chilly here, Virginia wolff thought that you need a room to yourself to write to write to write to write. And is it wulf or wolf, how does this work, how, how, how. Author ponders, would be nicer to take the laptop down to the coffeeshop, watching the idiotbox, not that conducive to good writing, now is it, is it? She has written since January 31, that makes how many days? She does not even have 30 000 words yet, which means that she did not even put in one thousand words per day. And now, a big bang trailer, and we type here type here. Against the chilliness, against the nice weather outside, ah, to sit hunched over and type, and type. Another ad, the word count so near to 27 000, not quite there yet, not quite, not quite, not quite, not quite, not quite. -------------------------------------------One more word to break 26 999, we have 27 000, if you make it at least to 28 000. And now, BIG BANG THEORY, yay and yay and yay. How could one produce poetry while listening to BAZINGA. How did we live before twitter, a line from big bang, now, how is that for a title? And 27057 we have, we have. -------------------------------------------------On the telly, Seinfeld, the one where they all go to india for sue ellen mishki’s wedding, it is pretty funny and, of course, if you don’t know what is going on, the laughtrack will put you right on track, no pun intended as they say. So, tonight is platitude galore, author was at the downtown library listening to a talk by 5 children book authors. Was pretty good, and the room was pretty full. A lot of potential authors, huh. What every one of the speakers agreed on was, you gotta write and write and write. Thus, author here is back at the laptop putting down her words, fast and fast

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and fast. She has to run out once more to the grocery store, but first let us put down some more words, some more words, some more words, some more words, some more words. --------------------------------Now a progressive ad, now some more Seinfeld. A discussion between George and Seinfeld with the cupboard with all the cereal boxes behind them, now Elaine and Kramer joining in. Somehow it is too tough to document what is going on on the telly, one cannot keep pace with the fast action, they are now in a clothing store, it is pretty funny, and that is all that author can say. Explaining the jokes would just kill the jokes, thus, just gotta go on typing while watching the show. Chuckling moves the writing forward, so it seems, so it seems, so it seems. And now they are all sitting in the diner, like they always do, they always do. And once more the clothing store, change of scenery, the dum dum dum of the music in between the scenes. Now papi coming in, the scene where he does not wash his hands before making the pizza dough, jerry’s perplexed expression. And once more, monk’s. poppi’s again. Jerry, have some, he refusing. Ah, funny stuff, funny, funny stuff. A car ad, imported from Detroit, Chrysler Chrysler. Now chili’s, now a one a day ad, now les schwab. Tulalop resort casino, Toyota.and once more progressive, flo and the two other guys. Xfiniti and we have 27 422. Only 600 more, 600 more. Jerry and George on the couch, both of them eating cereal. Kramer coming in doing his kramery thing, Elaine, George and Seinfeld in monk’s, George is wearing the swoosh making suit. The clothing store again, the mannequin, jerry claiming to be elaine’s lawyer, now George walking with the swooshing suit, now poppi’s. once more the apple pie discussion, poppi is a little sloppy. Conformity is an obsession with me. Take a piece of pie, I insist, if you’re one of us, you eat the pie. It is getting tiresome to document the dialogue, especially in such a fragmented way. But, hey, we have 27 533 words here, words here. Quantity over quality, quantity over quality, quantity over quality. 76

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Now a dog on the telly, a coffee cup, a black and white ad with a smithering of baby-blue, yay, chase. Expedia, ken’s salad dressing. Tr6 manneken, mannequin. And now, Frasier, the animation at the beginning, and now, we are listening, I am listening. 27 592 words, just keep on typing, typing, typing, typing, typing. It is the show with the dog psychiatrist, roz doyle, café nervosa, funny, how they are sitting around café nervosa in the same way that the big bangies sit in the cafeteria and the seinfeldians sit in monk’s. if author keeps on documenting all these sitcoms she might just start writing one herself. If you can distil the formula you can recreate ‘em. 27 666, and we type, we type, we type here, against the laughttacks, laughtracks. Only 320, 320, 320. Author ponders if she should water the plants, one of the writers in the library was describing how she used to write each and every day, seems that that is the secret to good writing, just gotta do it, each and every day, each and every day. And we type here, type here, type here, against the dull bangs in the back, against the hunched feeling in the shoulder, and now the scene where the dog psychiatrist comes in to talk to eddy. 27 769, 27 770. And yet she was never committed, I don’t know why, I’m sexy and I know it, m and m ad, now a kia optima ad. A sleep number mattress ad, an ad by a lawyer, who seems to think that he should do his own pitch, and now once more Frasier. The dog psychiatrist, now once more frasier’s apartment, Frasier talking, the fire in the fire-place behind him, they are all talking, author here needs 150 words more, 150 words more, 150 words more. Daphne moon talking, Frasier, roz, niles, the dad, only 140 words more, they cite plato and t.s.elliott, 130 words, 130 words, 130 words, 130 words, 130 words. ----------------------------------------------------------------------77

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Now a California ad, a progresso ad, a salad dressing ad, another Toyota ad. Another tulalop ad, a sleep country ad, a kitchen counter ad and once more, the same salad dressing. Only 84 words, only 84, only 84. And yet another episode of Frasier, first the animation, now the show itself. A totino ad, a toilet paper ad, a chewing gum ad, no, wait, it is a dawn ad. Weird, only four ads. Seems, that sometimes there are ten ads, sometimes two. Obviously there is a better subject matter for writing, but they say, you have to practice your writing chops, no matter what. Which might not be true, if you do not have anything worthwhile to say and you just fill the page with rubbish, the whole process will be counterintuitive. And we type, we type, we type. 18023, yay, yay, yay. --------------------------------------------------------march 6 – sure, we can and should reach 30 000 by the end of the day, should be doable, easily doable. Sitting in the quiet and pleasant library in oakridge, using the 36 minutes remaining on somebody else's computer booking, the day klimpers away, away, so very suburban, so very so very. This library has a totally different feel when compared to the one in downtown, it is wealthier, everyone is well-fed and well-kempt, if they have neuroses here, they are all wellmedicated and held at bay, not gurgling to the surface, which cannot be said for downtown, nope, and we type here type here type here. Gotta find those words, hurl them against the monitor, hoping and vying for publication, author here ponders, the talk in the library the day before did not help, was pretty depressing, a room with 50 hopefuls and 5 mid-career authors, hm, what can we say about that about that? And let us type here type here. If you are a nanowrimo creature, there are no hierarchies, everyone is in the same boat, whereas in the library thingie there was a clear hierarchy, here the published authors, there the wannabes, that is not good, not conducive to writing, kinda stifling, ah, stifling. Anyhoo, let us type, let us type, let us type. Author is sitting a

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tad contorted here, she could adjust the seat, but, hey, no time,. Gotta put down all of these words, all of these words, all of these words. 28315, 28315, 28315. author ponders, if she should do this in 300 word spurts or in 500 word spurts, there gotta be a method to the madness here, problem is, to choose the method, which method is the best. Should it be a different method each and every day, so to not get bored, bored. And we are typing, typing, typing here. Typing and typing and typing. Short stop, short save, a spellcheck, why not and why not and why not. And 28 400 it is, it is, it is. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------she still has 22 minutes left here, might as well type, type. Let it run down to 15, then you should start saving, ah, saving. It is weird to have your writing interrupted by the little clock icon, the one at the top of the monitor, anyhoo, let us type and type and type. The big 6 on the wall behind the checkout counter, yep, it is march 6, where have all these days gone, where, where. And we type, ah, we type, we type. On and on and on. Slightly frustrated, slightly not. On and on and on and on and on. The fillers of the language, sliding onto paper, yay and yay and yay. Author ponders, she is writing a tad too much bullshit here, too much for a reluctantly sunny day at the beginning of march. And let's type and type and type. Type here, type here, type here. ---------------------------------------------dromedar 7, that is the new name of this her text, dromedar is the german term for a camel, although author here does not really recall if it is the one with one hump or the one with two humps. Titles for this wunderbar spring novel change by the minute, like the colours of the awakening spring and author is a formidable bullshit writer, so it seems, so it seems. She is now in the central library, on the third floor, she can see the ford center for the performing arts from here, 79

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thru the window, in the distance. Baby cries, twice, woman in bleach blond hair cut, short, next to her. In grey and white, the woman is typing, too and too and too. Now she sighs, she is looking for a triage place in a hospital, no wonder, there are sighs and sighs and sighs. Author here types fast and fast and fast, she needs some more words, some more words, some more words. She can see the budget sign outside, far away, thru the window, thru the window. And we type here type here type here type here type here. 28 750 words, just type down 250 more, 250 more, 250 more. Outside one can see the posters of a performance in the theater, all pink and purple, inviting you to see the show, see the show. In the back, the roaring of the escalator, in the front, two students talking about math while wearing checkered shirts in black and white. And we type here type here type here type here. Author has to hurry up, her car can only be parked for 4 hours straight, in the mall, in the mall, in the mall. We need some more words, fast and fast and fast. The roaring of the book wagon , in the back in the back. A woman in grey, too overweight, blond curly shortish hair. A man, slim, but puffed up, with a grey puffy down jacket that is way too big. Another woman in blue and white, striped down, ah, to sit here and to describe the persons that walk by, the sounds of the library, the fast steps, roaring over the floor. The glimpses of sun, outside, outside, the closings of a door, the typings, ah, the typings. We have enough words here, now, do we, do we? 29943 of them, fast and fast and fast. The book shelf thingie to her left, in the distance, the little cupboard with all those index cards, a relict from the past, the past. Alexandria here sure is changing, achanging. And we type, yay and yay and yay. A coughing masterpiece, yay, that one, that one. The one that will not win the miss america pageant, the miss universe pageant, the book that no one will read, no one, no one, no one, the writing that will only garner a green participant ribbon, yay, that one, that one, here is to all the unpublished writers of this planet, a toast and a toast and a toast. To all the films that have 7 views max on you-tube, to all the poems that no one reads, to the

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paintings that rot in the attic, to the meals that are scoffed at by critics, to mediocrity and to lesser endeavors, lesser ones, lesser ones, . And, yeah, we write here, write here, write here. ------------------ayh, and by the way, DROMEDAR is the camel with one hump, yay 4 google. And to think there was a time we lived and breathed without google. Anyhoo, 29155, 29155. ---------------she still has about 40 minutes left on this station, she still has to type up 1000 or so words if she wants to make the cut, her self-imposed cut, the one that nobody cares about but herself, that one, that one, we are losing it here, slowly, why not, why not why not. That is what happens if you are sitting contorted in front of a typing machine, in a big room, where so many others are sitting just as contorted in front of their computers. Ah, the library in downtown vancouver, the station CEN305, waiting for her input, her input. While the sun is shining outside, bathing the city in its not quite there spring light, while the crocuses are everywhere, while glimpses of sunny delight wink thru the windows, while the poet here types up way too much bullshit, way too much and way too much and way too much. The car in oakridge, it is there too long, too long, gotta wrap this up, gotta, gotta, gotta. Fragmented sentences, fast and fast and fast. And 29355 we have, we have, we have here. -------------------------And now, the biggest loser on the telly, the weigh-in, ah, the suspense, the suspense. It is actually kind of a good show, it makes you want to hit the gym or, I don’t know, go for a walk, keep moving, moving. Anything, but to keep sitting and be hunched over, typing in the last words to

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make it to 30 000 which is not such a great number for one month. Yeah, writing as a race, that will do it do it, that is how you produce literature, why not, why not, why not. Author here should take the laptop down to the coffeeshop on arbutus. The lights of the city, the noise, the hecticness, that is what furthers writing, ah, writing. Poet under the gun, ah, why not, why not, why not. Vancouver has a teacher strike, no schools in the city. You drive by schools, there are teachers with a sign that says “teachers taking a stand”. anyhoo, let us type here, fast and fast and fast and fast. Another weigh-in, a woman who weighed 231 and is now 228. And we need 500 more words, more words. It is seven forty-five in the evening, author ponders what to write about, for some weird reason the word count button does not work, it shows a zero, so there is actually no way that one can gage the word count. Author ponders, there is something wrong with the software, that is how it always is, these machines seem to do whatever they feel like. Weird, ah, strange. It is not that good to switch softwares all the time, the library system uses open office, whereas the other computers use Word, and sometimes it is an apple computer, sometimes it is a PC. And we type, type, type. -------------------------So we need 400 more words, on the telly a new show called last man standing, author really has no great subject matter here, she feels as if she is typing up tv-guide, maybe the maxim that you just have to write each and every day is actually worthless, worthless. And it does not help that one repeats words, it is not necessarily artsy, just annoying. 300 more words, that is all we need here, in this too chilly room, while the telly is playing its songs, boringly, boringly. There are more important issues, bigger issues, just the preoccupation with the process of writing, it is too technical, way too technical. Just counting all these words, like counting the milestones on a

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highway to Portland or to any other city for that matter, that is not enough, now is it, is it? And we type we type we type we type. 29760, 240 more 240 more. An ad about pretzels and peanut butter, now a peanut butter ad, now an ad for bc teachers. Now a Disneyland ad, describing all this shit makes the wordcount accumulate, accumulate. Just need 200 more words, that should do it, do it. Nope, she will not be one of the literary greats of the 21st century, so it seems, so it seems. But who cares, what more fun is there in the world then sitting contorted at a computer in order to type to type. It is a neverending voyage, well, except, when you have reached the allotted wordcount, but, hey, we said that already, already. Another ad, this time for a fido plan, and now anther episode of cougartown. It is kind of nice, everything with Courtney cox is good, especially when she was part of the bruce springsteen video. Hey, after discussing all these so very pressing issues, we are near to the coveted 30 000, so very near, so very very near. This place is so very very cold, author here is wearing two hats and a shawl around her head. Looks kinda weird and strange, but, hey, gotta fight off any potential chills, any cold, yeah. And now, some more words, some more words, some more words. Tomorrow, maybe, there will be a real story in this, a plot, a narrative, the like the like. Ah, ten more words, ten, ten, ten, ten. And we’re there, we’re finally finally there. 30 007 it is, it is, it is. Yay. -------------------------------------------------So, march 7, march 7. Author here has to google today’s date, she thought it was march seven, but, hey, better make sure, make sure. That is why you have those uber big calendars in workplaces and banks. Because, everyone is slightly spaced out, our collective zombieness, that one, ah, that one. Author ponders, she has 30 tousand, by the end of this day, she will have 32 000, what difference will it really make in her life, it is just some number, some number. It just signifies that she has pushed down a certain amount of square keys, that she has stored a certain amount of 83

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words in the cloud, why does one do this, why, why, why. A certain amount of words, the articulation of, well, stuff, in her case, the articulation, the documentation of whatever place, whatever space she happens to be in. someone sneezes, the library of the community college on 49th, happening, happening, pretty slowly, pretty slowly. People reading texts, the outside calm, voices in the back. Author is hunched over, too much, too much, too much. A retired gentleman at his favourite station, seems, this place always has its regulars, its regulars. Just like the mall, having its regulars, author is not very happy, that she is a regular at keeping tabs on the regulars, and then writing about that, ah, to be a freelance writer, what a crappy job, arrgggh, you have no clue if you will ever publish this, publish this. But you hammer away at the keyboard, anyways, anyways, one day, all these words will venture out into the world and find a publisher, yeah, why not, why not why not. How do you pronounce QUERY, is it kwiery, is it kwaery? And we type here, type here, type here. 30316, okeedok, not that bad, not that bad. Just 4 times 500, or six times 300, yay, it is best to do this in chunks, chunks. Writing in chunks, reading in chunks. It is slightly chilly here, slightly cold, but definitely not as icy as it is at home, where the heater is broken or something, where it is the arctic circle, since Sunday, Sunday. Where you have to wear three hats over each other, a warm shawl, and layer upon layer. Or you have to figure out how to reignite the heater instead of patiently waiting for the summer. Two persons are talking in the back of writer here, she could listen in, but, hey, gotta typa and type and type. 435, gotta propel that to 500, then you can stop, save this, then you can spellcheck, spellcheck. A woman stomps over the floor, those heals must be the heals of women’s shoes, someone coughs, a woman in orange dumps all her stuff on the seat at the other station, outside, a slow, quiet day, yeah, that one, that one, that one. A Wednesday in march, yay, and yay and yay. The poeticness that is not happening, not yet, not yet, not yet. How can you write a novel without s-e-x in it, how will it sell, how, how. No action and no

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heaving bosoms, ah, this better be good, better be good. Just the description of the lowly life of a writer, ah, this better be good, better be good. She should change the title of this text to POET, somehow, a poet is a different animal than a writer, a more marketable, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. A more romanticized figure, somehow off, but in a good way. In a manner not too insane. Not way too insane. And we type here, type here, type here. TYPIST, now, that is not a good title, it is as romantic as PLUMBER. And we type here type here type here type here. Ah, to be a writer, a writer, to be part of the dowdiest of art forms, where you hardly take a shower and where birds nest in your bun, yay, let us write and type and type. Gone are her days as an animator, those were the glory days, but they are over, forever, forever, forever. And we type here, type here, type here. Might as well save this, might as well spellcheck, wordcount, the like, ah, the like, the like, the like. The librarians in this place, wait, I am writing something here, for you to archive, yay and yay and yay. It is still chilly, chillyish, chillyish. -----------------------------------------------------------------------in the library at kerrisdale, writing, typing. Still the same day, there are a lot of retirees here, there are schoolchildren, too, one or two, because, hey, the teachers are on strike in this city, thus, everyone is fending for herself. It is a time of flux, apparently, not that there is any difference for author here, she has to produce 2000 words, rain or shine, seven days a week, she is listening in to her own typings, which is pretty noisy in this so very quiet space, this is truly a library in the true sense, the old sense, people reading newspapers, you can see the picture of a librarian saying shhh, not really, but as an imaginary creature. Anyhoo, we type here, type here, type here. Against the quietness, the reluctant studiousness of this place. It is not really studious, it is more a place where people who are not in the workforce gather, it is basically a place of privilege, full of nicely behaved people who do not have to work for a living, but who somehow manage very effectively 85

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to not go crazy, same goes for the senior center upstairs, where people are content that they have left REAL LIFE, or whatever is perceived as real lfe. And author here, writes, types, she had a pain de chocolat for lunch, kind of a weird choice for lunch, and we type here type here type here type here. Type and type and type some more. She is sitting contorted on this chair, which for some reason is like a barstool, haha, a barstool in a library. And we type, type, type while the noise of a garbage truck is outside, we type and we type and we type. And 31086 words, ah, words. Splashing against the monitor, onto the keyboard, the like, the like, the like. And stop, and spellcheck, spellcheck. -----------------------------------------------------she is pondering, should she try to get the volunteer job at the library book store, yay, why not, why not. Off to the bookstore it is, save this, spellcheck this, yay and yay and yay. ----------------------------------------

900 more words and any word should do. On the telly George and Elaine, it is the one with the, the, well the episode is called THE WIFE. It is kinda funny, but there is not much to describe. One cannot really describe a comic show, one has to watch it. Tough to make up stuff to write about, it is much easier to sit in the library and to write there. There is always something going on, there are people coming and going, so one can just describe their clothes and their mannerisms, what they say, how they move, their hair, their height, the like, the like, the like. Ah, we still need 800 here, ah, writer’s block, writer’s block. Now a burger king ad, now a home depot ad. A movie trailer and a Toyota ad. Progressive, and once more Seinfeld. And now another sitcom, this time Frasier. First the animation, this time with three colored balloons. Now frasier’s apartment, laughtracks. So, we 86

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have 31 279 words, only need 700 more words in order to reach 32 000. The show is pretty funny, but that is all one can say, it is kind of futile to describe the plot. 700 more words, 700 more words, 700 more words. Now a chex mix ad, a Disneyland ad, a bottled water ad. And once more, only three ads and the show starts again. Now they are in café nervosa, both Frasier and Niles. 31 355 words, 31 355, 31 355. And now some more advertisements, a Pillsbury ad, and several other ads. She tries to stretch the sentences as much as she possibly can, you’ve gotta be wordy, in order to fill the page. She still needs 600, which is pretty tough if you do not have anything to say. You just go through the motions and type. Here is actually a good idea for a story, some writers sitting around a table and trying to fashion a story. Bouncing ideas off each other, fabricating a narrative, a catchy plot. On the telly, once more frasier’s apartment. Talking, laughtracks. Another wisecrack, some laughing, some more laughing. We only need 500 more, that is all, that is all, that is all. Now a cookie ad, a nasal allergy medication ad, a cartoonish bee talking. Now the movie trailer for THE ARTIST, we have 31 501 words here. Only 500 more words, the problem being that there are only thirty minutes left to midnight. The idea is to type 2000 words each and every day, one can edit them later, but there should be a first draft, even if it is sloppy writing. Nanowrimo works on that premise, the idea is to type 50 000 words in one month, to finish a novel fast, fast, fast. The plot is not important, the writing, the wordcount, that is what is important. It is totally different from writing an essay, where the quality of writing is important. 400 more words, 400, 400. Another Frasier episode, this time the animation has a very colorful rainbow against seattle’s 87

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skyline. And we type here, type here, type here. And once more, a chex mix ad, another Disneyland ad and wait, a bottled water ad. The same three ads, in the same succession. So, one learns a lot about television programming, if one documents it, the merit of that knowledge, though, is quite questionable. And we type here, type here, type here. Save, spellcheck, the like, the like, the like. Only 300 words, only, only, only. It is pretty chilly here, tough to find the right words when it is cold and freezing. One can always describe the chilliness, but, hey that is as interesting as counting the words. The life of a writer, especially an uninspired one, does not give much fodder for a catchy story. And here is another Pillsbury cookie ad, an ad for carpet, for flooring and an ad for a seattle lawyer with a bad toupet. A fitness club ad, a kitchen counter top ad. And we have 31 782, a denny’s ad, ice cream, s’mores, and once more THE ARTIST. Now the café nervosa, laughtracks, the like, the like. It is 11:44, there is still enough time to write 200 words, some fast fast sentences. How did people write when there was no little icon to show, how many words they had written. Those were the days when substance was important, not the wordcount.150 words, 150, 150. Now a scene in frasier’s apartment, it is really difficult to watch the show and to type at the same time, one action eliminates the other, so to speak, one cannot watch and write, too tough too tough too tough. Fragmented sentences, fast and fast and fast. We need only one hundred words, homestretch, homestretch, homestretch, homestretch, homestretch, homestretch. Repeating words always helps, it moves the wordcount forward, and we have 31 922 here, not bad, not bad, not bad. Seventy more words, against the laughtrack, against the ads, against the sounds and sights on the telly. And we type here, type here, type here. Only eight minutes to midnight, only, only, only. 88

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It seems as if this is the last episode in the show, anyhoo, there are only fifteen more words needed, so type and type and type. Five more words, two. And 31 999 it is. 32004, save, spellcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck. Enough of writing, enough, enough, enough. ----------------------------------------------march 8- on the telly, the young and the restless, exceptionally good looking, well- groomed people, all behaving like the terrible-two crowd. And to think that they have to make due without laugh tracks. And we type here, type here, type here. Seems that the weather is warmer now, spring is in the air, in the air. Author rolled outta bed, strolled down to the grocery store, a cuppa joe, a banana loaf, the silent quietness of safeway at ten. Two construction workers on their morning break, more like hydro workers, in orange overalls. Seems that this safeway is way too far off from any working places, that is why there is nobody there, even at ten, even @ ten. It is in the midst of retiree land, it is within a bedroom community and only ten minutes from downtown, to boot. The young and the restless, reinforming, cementing each and every stereotype that exists in Americana. And we type here. Type here, type here. Against the dull chilliness of a morning in march, and if push comes to shove, it is near noon. We still need 1800 words here, legend has it that hemingway would write while standing up. That must be better for posture, then again, he shot himself. And we type here, type here, type here. Against a morning, against noon. She will go down to the art school, there is a talk worth listening to, so it seems, so it seems. Besides, we are outta words, so early in the game, so very early on in the game. Gotta motion around the city, to find stuff to describe, to describe. Stuff other than fictional characters on the telly, no ads for you, today, today. And thirty-two oh three it is, it is. 32 311. What is in a number, what, what, what?

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two fifty-one, in the central library, start up your writing marathon, while the two Singaporeans at the other computer are talking up a storm, while the rolling book cart is rolling by in the basement, while the ford center for the performing arts is bathed in sunlight, while birds fly by outside of the window, let us type and type and type and type. Everybody here is dressed up, wearing a suit and tie, nice, not our regular downtown library, spring is in the air, or something like that something like that. Her reluctant novel, and still the rolling of the bookcart. Or whatever that is, it sure makes a lot of noise. Author should go to the railing, look down, actually it is a myriad of bookcarts, in all colours, empty bookcarts that are all assembled in the basement. Ah, author here never looked down from the third story down , over the railing into the basement, it is quite a view, kind of like a behind the scenes view, down into the basement of this huge library in downtown vancouver, and we type here, type here, type here, type here. She has to find the wordcount button, it is 32 563. she has to still fill the page with 1500 more words, fast and fast and fast. She feels kinda sleepy, not like writing, not like typing. The words they are a-stalling, the little yellow-orange light, the horizontal one, it flickers in the black hard drive to her right, author ponders if she should do a reading in the wired monk on 4th and trafalgar, better not, better not, better not. Yeah, there is an open mic, you can do a reading for 5 minutes, but, hey, better not better not better not. If you have stage fright, you have it, so, forget about the wired monk and the open mic thingie. And we type here type here type here. She could just check it out, listen in to the brave souls who schlepped themselves to the microphone, yay, you can do that do that. There will be another talk too, at seven, should be interesting, the caveat being that author here is falling asleep here, while typing, while typing. Could be that she is wearing three pairs of socks, what with the cold, which is a tad too much, given that the weather is so springy, so 90

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warm and sunny. She dressed up way too toasty, what with turtle neck and warm shawl, her place is icy, but outside it is warm and pleasant. Maybe she should just stay outside here, the library is really warm, their central heating is working just fine, just fine. She could stay in the airport overnight, there the central heating is working just fine, too. Which cannot be said for her place what with the broken heater, the supericiness, that can hardly be circumvented by wearing three hats and three pairs of socks. And the library here is happening, happening. We have 32 847, pretty good, pretty good, pretty good. If you devote your life to filling all of these pages, you can do it do it. Even while your right shoulder is giving out, even while you lead the dowdiest of existences, even while birds make their nest in your bun, even while you look like the proverbial cat woman. But, hey, you have to, you have to look superdowdy, it is the writer's form of dressing for success, success. and we type here, type here, type here, type here. If you are an animator, you have to dress like a three-year-old, if you are a writer, dress dowdy, dowdy. Painters need the right amount of sprinkles of paint, against black sweaters, so it seems seems seems seems seems. People here talking, her words her words her words. and 32 992 it is, it is. We need 8 more to make it to the full thousand , 8 and eight and 8. stop, save, and spellcheck, spellcheck. A baby cries in the back, frustrated, so very very frustrated. Laughs, squeaky voices, the so very frustrated scream of the little baby, baby. And we type here type here type here type here. Three three oh six nine it is, it is. 33 069, six oh niner. Let us stop the madness, for moments, enough of this mindless typing, 4 now, for now, for now. And the rolling carts in the basement start rolling again, with a vengeance, a vengeance. You can see the street from here, you can see the people on the fourth floor, best seat in the house, best, best, best. Seems, the ford center is just called THE Centre, one can see the writing on the wall, from here, from here. No kidding, it is really a writing on a wall. And some more book carts a-rolling by, a-rolling by.

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might as well type some more words, yeah, why not, why not, why not, woman in lavender sweater and whitish touque walks by, then returns to the librarian’s reference desk, man with yellow plaid sweater walks to the back, someone talks, loudly, the sound of the music from the other station is way too loud, even with the eye-phones, the hooded person in purple with glasses likes his music, seems that everyone else has to share his taste in music. Outside the sun is duller, now, it is exactly four o’clock, what with daylight savings time, is it correct or not, daylight savings is just in the summer, so it is really exactly four PM, and we type here type here type here type here, against the pangs of nausea, reluctant, reluctant. Yay, to read this to a crowd, you have to be very adventurous, very forceful, anyhoo, we type, type, against boredom, sleepiness, the like, the like, the like. Author parked her car next to the bay, she has to take canada line home, rush hour rush hour, that should be fun, fun, she will walk by the geological survey place, to the canada line station, which reminds us here, do not forget to return jared diamond's “the third chimpanzee” to chapters, and we type here type here type here, 33393 it is, it is. Stop and stop and stop. It is getting chilly in here, music still too loud, too much talking in the back, the back. Woman in red plaid looks up, man next to author here is taking his shoes off, the day in the library, the library. Well, at least everybody here seems to have taken a bath, there is a first, a first. And we still type, we still type some more, some more. Woman in the back talks, 4 moments, for moments. ------------------------------------------------------so, btw, there is areason why the library is so nice and clean, teachers are on strike, which means, that all the high school kids are here in the library, the demographics of the library has definitely changed, changed.

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500 more words, while the office is on, the one with the rabies run, which is really kinda funny. Author here wanted to go to a talk, she could have gone to two other readings, but, it is much better to write, instead of listening to talks about writing. After all, there are 500 words waiting to be typed in, not to mention the two longhand tomes that must be somewhere and are waiting to be typed up, one is the longhand nanowrimo-thingie from 2009, the other one is a travelogue, yeah, still another travelogue. And after writing all this in great detail, we have some more words, some more words, some more words. On the telly, the office ppl. Running in their blue shirts, running and talking to the camera, some members of the running team is sitting around in an outdoor coffee shop, cheating. And we type here, type here, type here. 350 more words, 350, 350. There is nothing to describe, this is not the downtown library where there is always something happening. On the telly angela and Dwight fighting over angela’s deceased cat, she accuses him of killing her. And we type here type here type here. Marathontyping. Now a cable ad, another ad and still another ad. We still need 300 here, 300, 300. There is not much to describe, there is the keyboard, the monitor, the two plants near the window. The brown paperbasket with the filigree border. Another ad, this time for a trailmix. An ad for a movie, an ad for a cable company. And still gotta type 250 words, 250, 250. -------------------------------------Actually, we need only 230 here. We could just repeat what we just wrote, kind of weird how author here refers to herself as WE. Instead of I. and the AUTHOR HERE is kind of off, too. And now an OFFICE ad, a THE ARTIST ad, a DENNY’S ad. A car ad, Hyundai sonata. And here is a sleep country ad. Lots of ads, lots of ads. The channel is a Seattle channel, we can describe all of

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this and the page will fill, fill. 153 words, fast and fast and fast. An ad for weightloss, it is actually for weightloss surgery. And once more, THE OFFICE, the office. A hamburger helper ad, a green giant ad. A sylvan learning center ad, and still another progressive ad. Great literature inspired by ads. And we need roughly 100, roughly, roughly. The music from the office, usually the best part. 90 more words, 90, 90. 90. It is a Christmas office show, the beginning was pretty funny. 80 words, 80, 80. Actually, we are at seventy already. The typing, the typing, against weird pangs in shoulder and back, hunched over the laptop, fast and fast and fast. Typing in the library is so much more comfy, and there is much more going on, much and much and much. We only need nineteen, no biggy, no biggy. Maybe, we should shoot for 35 thousand today, nah, just happy to put in the obligatory 2000, 34003 it is, it is, it is. Yeah, why not why not why not. And 95 pages it is, it is. --------------------------March 9- in the community college at ten and thirty-two, the young man at the other computer station drinks a starbucks beverage, outside, it is drizzling, author rolled outta bed, made her way to the starbucks in the grocery store on arbutus, she is mentioning this big corporate coffee chain way too much, anyhoo, she did find her way to this library again, only to be informed by the librarian that she can use the public library system, too, we know that, we use them all here, the idea is not so much to use the libraries but to be inspired by all the different computer stations all over town, in order to type up 2000 words each and every day, which is difficult if there is no plot, no plot whatsoever. Only the descriptions of all these computer places, all these public typing machines. There must be a real onslaught of written material in the last ten years , ever since each and every library has its computers and people can type up their essays or whatever. In the olden 94

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times you had to have typewriters and there were not enough, never, never, never. But now, computers are reading materials too, people do research online, so basically there must be a more informed populous. It is good that author here does not write well researched essays, because this much hopping from idea to idea, that should not be good, not that good. And we type here, type here, type here. We have roughly 300 words already, that is pretty good for some drizzly morning in mid-march. And we type we type we type. It is technically not mid-march, still the beginning of march. Author here tries to be away from home as much as she can, home is way too chilly and icy, one has to duck into one room with a heater, one has to wear way too many layers. The heater is broken and thus it is Antarctica in Vancouver, the ice age in the city. And we type here type here type here. Author is pondering if her next stop should be the art school, if she should type up the rest of her daily allotment there, should she, should she? And we type here type here type here. It is basically bullshit, not great literature, not quite, not quite. Ah, to stare at a keyboard, and to type and type and type. Some more words some more words. Fast and fast and fast. The people on the stairs, you can see them from here, there is always something to see in this place, yeah, it is pretty vibrant, vibrant. And we type and type and type, 34 372, type some more, in order to have the first 500 of the day in, in. Some more words, ah, some more words. Fast and fast and fast. Yay, 34 500, might as well rest now, rest now. ----------------------------------------------------------Go for the second 500. Draw them up, put them into this machine, lock them in, let them flow onto the paper, she ponders, she has used up all kinds of various descriptions already, already. Her thing is to use as many words as possible, the idea is to write flowery, ornamental, especially, if you do not really have much to say. And how much does a writer really have to say, his or her life is wasted at a keyboard or in bars, if you are hemingway. So it seems, so it seems, so it seems The 95

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people, the persons with full lives, they do not have time to write. You need A ROOM OF ONE’S OWN, or at least a typewriter of one’s own, you need extra time, you need someone to pay for this, all kind of things. And you need to have something to say. If all you do, is to produce 2000 words per day, there is no time left, to live life, to live life. You observe life by watching the stuff on the idiotbox, author ponders, she should stop her bullshitty attempts at logic, the person at the other computer left, now a woman with too many colorful layers is sitting there. A hat, a jacket that she peels herself out of, she notices that author here is observing, even if it is merely a quick glance. And we type and type and type. Pretty furiously, fast and fast and fast. Still need 250, to make it to the next thousand, thousand. A woman in pink hair is now at the reference desk, a pink haired librarian. Light pink, baby pink. And we type here type here type here type here. In the back, some kind of roaring, author is not quite sure if she should leave this place or if she should do all her typing in one big whoosh. Her right middle finger starts to hurt, too much pressure, too much, ah, way way too much. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------And we need at least 150 more, to reach the coveted three five oh oh oh, not that there is any reason to call it coveted, there is no inner logic in this text, dear reader, do not look for it, do not look for it. It is just a diary or some kind of journal, the day-ins and day-outs of a so very hapless writer in 2012. Mainly hapless because she is non-published, because she thinks she will never be published. She hopes that she will not rot on the ash heap of forgotten writers, whatever that means and it does not mean anything, anything. Ah, to be a writer, ah and ah and ah. Too much whining for a nice rainy day, this will not do it, not do it, the noise in the other computer room is way too much way too much. The woman at the other computer station looks at her, apparently she is frustrated with her homework, author does not seem to be very good at reading people’s body 96

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languages, we are all Sheldon Cooper here., all and all and all. Author here has 35054, and maybe that is all that counts, all that counts. She feels like barfing, but, hey, seems, we always do, these days and these days and these days. Stop the insanity, read thru your text, eliminate the most obvious mistakes. Do it do it do it. ----------------------------------------------------------Just type in the next 1000 already, already. Might as well get this over in one whoosh, ah, to write until you fall to the floor, overdo it, overdo it. Yay, why not, be a person of extremes, to liven up your boring, ah, so very boring existence. One big feverish furious explosion of words, in this so very polite library, which is nicely heated and well-maintained, with a clean floor and a nice room temperature. In the distance one can see the children from the day-care in the gallery thingie, author rolls her chair back to observe better what is going on there, seems, the children are playing with the equipment in the gallery thingie, it is kind of like a film studio or something, something. The noise of books in the back, in the back and we type here type here type here. Like playing the piano, fast, fast, fast. Like playing the piano in an airport lounge, ah, to jump from idea to idea to idea. 35250, we need 750 more, and we’re done for the day, done for the day. ---------------------------------Outside people with umbrellas, inside a man with DKNY JEANS on his sweater. And we type, type, against the little blue light on the computer, against the noise of the typing, type, ah, type, type, type. Laughter in the back, loud, loud, pretty loud. A man with a phone, there is so much to see, so much to describe. There is no plot but the plot of everybody, all these people who are here in this room on this day, for moments, for moments. Only to leave again, to run after their respective lives lives. Author can still sit here in the evening and type up her novel, her non-novel. 97

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The book that nobody will publish and nobody will read, the words that will sail thru the cloud, sail thru the cloud. She feels pretty forsaken and weird and strange. Did Tolstoy feel like this, Dostoyevsky, Victor Hugo? All the greats, all the greats. And we type here, type here, type here. Ah, to be in the presence of greats and what is great, anyways. Is it a stoically looking man with a beard, preferably dead, now, is it, is it? How many girls made it into the pantheon of world lit, now, be true, how many, how many? None none none. The guys still have a tight grip on, well, everything. This cannot be good not that good not that good. And we type here type here type here. Quasi-feminist musings, so meek so meek so meek. And 650 more words are needed are needed. ----------------------------------------------Actually, 500 will suffice, should suffice, her back is hunched, she straightens up, sitting pretty, sitting straight. A woman in leather and a light grey-blue umbrella, against the drizzle, drizzle. The gallery thingie in the distance, still happening, happening. It is now like science-world, another science studio, a multimedia studio. What is so fascinating is that it is all glass, the proverbial fishbowl, so very different from other labs, other rooms. A glasshouse, and you should not throw rocks, not if you live in a glass house and not if you live outside of one. Well, more if you live in it. And we type here, type here, it is getting kinda chilly, chilly. Author ponders, should she make her way to metrotown, after this, should she go to the art school, what does a writer do, after doing the daily writing routine, what, what, what? Does she go to the mall to pick out a hat, a beret, maybe, yeah, what do writers do all day? What do musicians do, actors do? They are bored, mainly, mainly. Between stints, between stints. And we type here, type here, type here. Somebody sneezes, somebody murmurs. The day marches forward, forward. A woman in grey and white dances over the floor, actually, she does not really dance, she hops, ah, youth, youth, youth, that is when you can sprint and hop, without looking foolish, foolish. And we type, we type we type some more, 98

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some more. Straighten up, 35 777, it is, it is. Ah what a nice number, what a nice and neat number. Author feels suddenly like going to ikea, she will not, you cannot really drive thru the drizzle all the way to Richmond. And for what? Just stay put and type and type and type and type and type. She feels slightly dizzy, her fingers hurt, she moves them up and down, like a pianist would, a pianist would. Need 150 more, only 150, only 150. Ah, the idea of writing a certain amount of words per day, who cooked that up, some writing teacher who was married to a marathon running coach? And we type here type here type here type here. Hammer away at the keys, only 100, give or take some, give or take some. The library still happening, a man in grey sweats asks the reference ladies something. Author turns around, he actually is wearing a blue sweater, then again, maybe, it is someone else. Ah, to type and type and type and type. 54 more words, that should do it, do it. How insane, to sit at a typing machine and feed all these words to a machine, while the orange light on the computer flickers, the one next to the blue light, above the reflection of the other blue light. Ah, to use words when you could just take a photo, a picture, 36 006, we are done here done here done here done here. -----------------------------------------------------------She had a chocolate bar for lunch, is still sitting in the same seat, is getting cold, this cannot be good, not that good. To be chained to a computer and to write one’s ah so great novel, how can you do it, how can you physically do it? Someone sneezes, too loud, the library is brimming with people, so many, ah, so many, many, many. Her parking will expire at 2:23, she has a good hour to still write, to still write. To put her observations to paper, well, to keyboard, into the monitor. Outside, still drizzle, or ,at least, overcasty weather, inside here, slight chilliness, the feel of lightheadedness, what comes with the territory, the territory of sitting in the same position, for

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hours on end, hours on end. Well, at least, one can move this chair, it is non-swivelable, but you can easily roll it around, roll it back, give push to it, like pushing with two hands to the edge of the table and thus pushing yourself back. You can then move the chair back to the table, author here ponders if these kind of descriptions can pass as literary stuff, who categorizes that, who, who. What is the difference between a grocery list and THE RAVEN, huh, huh? And we type here, type here type here. The poet who is unlauded, she feels like crying, cringing her hands, yelping, she is a writer without success, without, without, no financial gains from all this writing, no awards, no honorable mention. No booker prize, no Pulitzer prize, no nobel prize. No literary AWARDS, HUH. WHAT ARE LITERARY AWARDS, ANYWAYS, HOW DO THEY LOOK LIKE? WHAT KIND OF TROPHIES DO LITERARY TYPES BESTOW ON EACH OTHER? A PAIR OF GLASSES? ANYHOO, WE TYPE, WE TYPE. AND IS anyhoo A LITERARY WORD, NOT BLOODY LIKELY, NOT BLOODY LIKE LY. AND WE TYPE HERE TYPE HERE TYPE HERE. For some weird reason, the typing machine capitalizes the words, gotta disable the capitalization, gotta find the right button to push. The typing board, the keyboard, author here could describe it, poetically, but, why, what for, what for? And we type here type here type here. 36 391 words, write on write on write on. ------------------------------------------------------------------She ponders, if she should stop this text, why does a self-respecting novel have to have 100 000 words, that is such a random number. There are books much longer and books much shorter, but according to Wikipedia and galleycat or both or none, the right wordcount for a novel in the 21st century is 100 000 words, roughly 300 pages. In times new roman, 12 point, double-spaced, that would be the right kind of book to be e-queried. Author ponders, who needs this kind of insidermumbo–jumbo, it has nothing to do with writing, with literature. If she would find an agent in the 100

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UK, the reality of publishing would be totally different. And Canada did not work for her, what she writes is not what Canadian publishers are seeking. Author ponders, her assessments of the publishing market are pretty random, anyhoo, who cares, just keep on writing, typing. And 36553 it is, it is. She could easily make it to 40 000, but then she will definitely have nightmares, dream of keyboards and the lights from the ceiling reflecting onto the keys. She will go mad, and she ponders if madness is what we are vying for here. Not bloody likely not bloody likely. Hemingway was 62 when he short himself, Nietzsche ended up in the madhouse, j d salinger lived in solitude. What is the fate of a writer, what and what and what. Is it really different from the life of a plumber? There are not many metanarratives about the lives of plumbers, so it seems, so it seems. And we type and type and type. Her lower back is starting to hurt, that happens if you hurl way too many words at a monitor, onto a keyboard. And still typing, still typing, still typing. ----------------------------------------------------------------36 701, quite a wordcount, quite a wordcount. The nanowriters make it to 50 000, easily, in a month, in a month. But, hey, how many of them get published, that is the question, the question. The amazon breakout novel contest accepted ten thousand applicants, 5000 in general fiction and 5000 in young adult fiction. In the end, penguin will publish two novels, two out of 10 000 will be selected, only two, only two. Well, author here does not really care, she did not even make it to the first round, she had her application in the very first day, with pitch and synopsis, she was not selected in the first round. That is what they do, they select 1000 out of the 5000 in each category, which means that 4000 do not make it in the first round. Obviously there are more rounds, until there is only one novel remaining in each category. Author ponders, what are the other novel writers up to now, the ones that did not make the cut? Author here for one, she is still writing, still typing. You have to have a steely resolve, that is how it seems, how it seems. Just will yourself to 101

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the nobel prize, if you are so inclined, if you are, if you are. And we type here type here type here type here. There are better, more important subject matters than the life of a writer, yep, but let us just keep on typing, ah, typing. And outside, the rain is still coming down, coming down, coming down. Judging from the umbrellas hobbling around, around. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------So, we have 36 977 words here. The red exit sign is in the distance, hanging from the ceiling, the librarian is helping the student, the gallery thingie outside, in the distance, is still happening, happening. It is basically a film studio, with glass walls, which is kind of weird, you can see the making of the film, the editing, the shooting, it is all part of the viewing process. It is a performance, a public performance, in every inch of the process. Author ponders, her writing here is kind of like a public performance, too, after all, she ventures out to all these computer stations, to do her writing, her writings. And we type, yeah, we type, yeah, we type. And save and save and save. Spellcheck, too, why not, why not why not why not why not? And 37 111 it is, it is, it is. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------in the library in kerrisdale, on the barstool-like thingie, two women laughing while using the computer, at the other station a woman who teaches the other student how to use the computer, she is a student because she is school aged and author here uses this computer while feeling kind of bad, this is more a search place than a write your great novel place. Author was in the mall, she was in the book store, looked in the fiction and literature section, yep, her name was not in the book section, one day when she is a published author her book will be there, yay, yay, yay. Did james joyve go to the bookstores in zurich and looked for his name, a book between jh and js, author ponders, does anyone understand what she is talking about? Anyhoo, let us type and type 102

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and type some more. It is much warmer here than in her own place, what with the broken heater, yeah, much warmer, much much much warmer. And we type here and type and type and type. She has a new title for this; TWO YEARS AFTER ART SCHOOL, kinda catchy, or HOW TO WRITE A MARKETABLE NOVEL. None of these are that good, she did some research about catchy novel titles, seems some authors use the trick to title their masterpieces in a way that it resembles an already published work, like naming a new car maudi reminiscent of audi. Well, this metaphor does not work that good, and is it even a metaphor or is it an an allegory, is it a simile or whatever. Anyhoo, let us type and type and type and typesome more. 37428, yay and yay and yay. Some saving, some spellcheck, spellcheck. -----------------------------------------------------question on march 10: does one really have to type 2000 words per day to feel like a whole person? Given that this is now author's profession, there is no reason that doing this each and every day will necessarily equal better prose. Maybe, taking some time off will just magically morph you into a much better, much more eloquent writer. The pauses, the rests are what makes for good writing. Haha, nice try, an instrument has to be played each and every day, in this case those writing chops are the instruments, use it or lose it, the like the like the like the like. There are different schools of thought, we know, but, hey, typing each and every day should do the trick, the trick. Author ponders, she has to do more exercise, or any exercise at that, walk at least an hour per day, she has gained 25 pounds since the Beijing Olympics, this year when the London Olympics roll in, the first question on everybody's mind will be: and how much does author here weigh? She can feel the heart attack creeping up, all this stationary writing, she might just keel over onto the keyboard. She is typing in oakridge, in the library, on one of these weird bar stools, there is no place where one can hang one’s coat, it is a stool, not a chair with a back, anyhoo, we type and 103

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type and type. This keyboard is kinda weird, it invites typos, typos. And we type and type and type some more. 37701, yay, it is, it is. Writing, typing bores the heck out of her, ah, just keep on pressing down these keys, these keys. Typists need exercise, she should definitely go for a walk, a walk, in the pouring rain of vancouver, vancouver. And we type we type we type we type. Some more some more some more some more. 37771, yay.

--------------------------------------------------march 11- on the telly, a spoof on THE ACTOR’S STUDIO. Funny, funny, funny stuff. Saturday night life on a Sunday morning in march, in a slightly cold room, ah, to type 2000 words, fast and fast and fast and fast. And to watch the funny stuff on the telly while typing away, typing away. A woman makes an impression of drew Barrymore, a very good one, a very good one. Let us type and type and type and type. Gotta concentrate on the words, while staring at the two plants near the window, which seem to be slowly dying. The outer tops of the one plant to the right are yellowing up, author ponders if she is watering the plant way too much. She waters it every two days, but because the heater here is down the weather is colder than usual in this room and thus too much water is not good. Author here does not have a green thumb, she manages to kill all the plants in her care. She should read up on how to care for this particular plant, there is a little stick in the soil, that has all the care instructions on it. You just have to dig your fingers into the soil and smush them up and then have all the little soil kernels under your fingernails, author ponders if describing this kind of stuff is the stuff that worldlit is made of. She was thinking long and hard about literature while taking her morning walk, she had a pretty good plea for her kind of actionless writing, the one that does not seem to sell, that is too boring, that does not have enough 104

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action and whatever in it to entice the reader, the escapist reader. Her target audience must be the james bonds of this world, people with action-packed lives who need some calming respite from their too action-filled lives, yeah, that is how it is how it is how it is. On the telly, a spoof on a rock band, author ponders if it is a spoof ON or a spoof ABOUT. Ah, to scramble all the words correctly, making them adhere to grammatical rules, in a too chilly room, on a Sunday morning, a Sunday morning. She should take this laptop to the coffeeshop on arbutus, do her typing, her writing there. It is definitely warmer than this place here, the electric heater does not really work, this place is just bone-chilling, bone chilling. She should wear mittens while typing, instead of typing, than pausing and rubbing the fingers, then typing again. On the telly, an ad for yoghurt and a Caribbean getaway, it seems you can win a Caribbean vacation if you eat those yoghurts. Now a Maybelline ad, only from Maybelline. This time it is for lipstick, not for mascara, for easy breezy, no, that is cover girl. Author ponders, which make-up line makes more money, one of the cheaper lines or one of the expensive lines. You can easily google it, if you are so inclined. And we type here type here type here type here type here. We have 38 247 here, she has to reach 40 000 by midnight, yay and yay and yay. It is kinda weird and strange to watch Saturday night life on a Sunday morn’, but it beats the hell out of fareed zakaria gps and/or intervention Canada. And we type here type here type here type here. 38 299, 38 301, she feels a cold coming on, has to go out for walks, has to move her body, to fight the chilliness, on the telly, Kelly Clarkson, since you’ve been gone, now another song, it is actually Kelly Clarkson, Jennifer Hudson and mary j. blige. Author here is not quite sure, if these are the names of the singers, now dolly parton and queen latifa, somehow snl morphed into something called divas of soul or just divas, so it is suddenly a music show. Whatever, whatever. And we type here type here type here type here. 105

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38 399, let us type and type and type and type. -------------------------------------38 426, suddenly there are more words, that is because she adds words when spellchecking, sometimes we subtract and sometimes we add. There is a guy on the telly with his hands in his pockets who gives info about singers, seems it is a science who sings what and why. It is not brain surgery, ah, the dumbing down on the idiot box, let us just watch tv and complain, complain. Author here feels the cold in her body, she should pack this up, stop writing, venture out, to the mall or something and anymall will do, should do, you’ve gotta be somewhere where it is much much much warmer than in here, she should watch THE LORAX, doctor’s order, she should feed a clod or starve a cold, yep, there are different schools of thought, different ones, different ones, different ones. She should pour ample amounts of alcohol into her body, apparently that is what nips a cold in the butt, she feels nauseated and lightheaded, this cannot be good, not that good, not that good, not that good, not that good. Ah, to die for your art, for your non-selling sucky art, and on the telly an ad for toblerone, toblerone. And a Maybelline New York ad, longest lashes, author here does not use mascara, her eyes always tear up, somehow she cannot handle mascara, she lives a mascaraless existence, on this planet, planet. And 38649 we have, we have, we have. ------------------------------------------------------------38 670, 38 673. We should vie for a story, a narrative, the like the like. Writers are storytellers, if they do not tell stories, then they write essays, newspaper articles, the like, the like, the like. Writing is highly categorized, highly compartmentalized. So it seems, so it seems, so it seems. Author stumbled onto the term MIXED GENRE, which is actually, any kind of writing, you never have a kind of writing that is only this or only that, the categorizations are invented by the 106

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capitalist system, by book merchandisers, author ponders if her anti-capitalist rantings hold true, nope, way, too easy, way too easy, way too easy. Just write, just type, just type, you will be able to sell your words, eventually, eventually. A woman on the telly singing, oh baby, baby, she has bangs, a bob, could be Kelly something, the singer that sings the song with teenage something, author here should be a music promoter, it does not help if you mix up aretha franklin and ah whatever whatever. And we type here type here type here type here type here type here. Jumping from word to word, letting the sentences hang mid-air, that is the way 2 go, the way to go. On a too sunny, way too chilly day in vancouver, canada. Let the words collapse, implode reluctantly, explode forcefully, while watching a toblerone ad on the telly, just type and type and type and type. Just fuckin’ type, have thirty eight nine one three, stop this, save it, the like the like the like. Ah, to be able to write coherent stuff, ah, to be able articulate concisely, some people should not even be allowed to write, that is how it seems how it seems. Selfdoubt and the artiste, there is nothing more to say, nothing more to say. And we type we type we type we type. The faceless singer in her goldlamee dress, on the telly, the telly, the telly. -------------------------------------------------------------Time to go for a brisk walk, that is what you do, when your writing, your drawing, your painting hits the wall, putting foot before foot before foot, it gives you the illusion that you are achieving something, anything. That you solve problems, that you are able to overcome obstacles, the like the like the like the like. That you can eventually hit a certain wordcount, the like the like the like. Author has enough of the constant noise pollution, the constant singing, the constant change of images. The show on the telly is weird and strange, it is not a good show, the lighting is off, the music is off. This is not what you listen to when you want to write great words, when you want to splash together formidable texts, you have to listen to better music, better art. And we type here, 107

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we type here, we type here. Against the chilliness, against the boring, uninspiring greenery outside, against the inanimate surroundings in the little room, ah, Virginia Wolff had it all wrong, you cannot really write in a room of one’s own, you have to type your stories in airports or on a busy street in downtown, you need motion around you, movement, in order to fashion superior texts, you should not write like this you should not write like that. Ah, there are as many notions about how to write and when to write and where to write as there are writers, so it seems so it seem so it seems. Ah, just keep on typing and keep on typing and keep on typing. Thirty nine two six six, and we type and we type and we type. Type some more and type some more and type some more. Ah, to go downtown and have a cocoa in the chocolate store on alberni, ah, to walk by canada place and stare at the north shore, ah, to do this and that and the other. Let us type, let us type, let us type. Let us somehow feel the right rhythm of the words, the one that always slips from your grip, the perfect wording that will never be, never ever be. Oh well, 39 369 it is, it is. ---------------------------------------------------------So, in the English language geek rhymes with freak rhymes with chic rhymes with creek, author here ponders about that while she is approaching her old alma mater, she ponders about something else, is old alma mater an oxymoron, hey, and there is still something else to ponder about, why the fuck is this keyboard so sucky? Half of the letters have disappeared, so you kinda guess and type, ah, everything sucks, it comes with the territory of, well, being on this planet, obviously, we still have our health and that is all that counts, as they say. THEY? WHO? And we type and type and type and type. With the back to the ocean factory, with a prime view of all the mags on the display, yay, we type and type and type and type. Author ponders, one of the rags looks really appealing, VOLUME magazine, it says on it: PRIVATIZE, author ponders if she should pick the magazine up or if she should keep on typing this text. She feels like barfing, everything seems pretty barfable, 108

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barfable. The sun might be shining, but author here chooses to barf, a tad, a tad, a tad. You know, poets are like that, they prefer barfing over giggling, that is how you become a poet in the first place. And to think that we do not have a post as prof emeritus in contemporary lit, yay and yay and yay. Somehow, the yay did not make any sense whatsoever in the last sentence, but, hey, that ‘s life, life. 39628 it is, it is. Author ponders if she should just march forward, make it to 40 000, she has until five, that gives her ample time to walk down to the market, the like, the like, the like. The so very boring Sunday eve of a writer, maybe, she should shoot 4 another career, one full of glamour and happiness, one full of, ah, what is the – and we are outta words here, words here. Even repeating words does not mask the inarticulateness, not on this queatshing Sunday afternoon, not and not and not. Some more words, some more words would be highly appreciated. Author picks up the Volume magazine, puts it next to the keyboard, she has an American apparel bag on the other side of the keyboard, both bag and magazine have no pictures on then, only big bold letters, maybe, author likes them because she is drawn to words, who knows, who knows, who knows. Actually, she is more drawn to counting words, and we have 39798 here, thus, not quite, not quite, not quite. 200, only 200, only 200. Ah, to make it 2 the finish line, without barfing, ah, barfing. And we type here type here type here type here. Just save this, just save this. March forward, move forward, motion forward. Author ponders, is literature, writing, a time-based medium, or does that term only apply to film, music is time-based, dancing is time-based. And we type here, type here, type here type here. 130 words, 130, 130. Obviously, while she repeats the 130, the wordcount changes, but, hey, who cares, who cares, who cares. In writing you pick out one word over all the others to infuse it into the sentence, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. And we type here type here type here type here. 39925, 39925. The library, slowly happening, typing, a man with a ponytail, people talking, a woman murmuring, a book noising, the

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day the day the day. And 39951 it is, it is. Yeah, yep, the man behind author makes a noise between yeah and yep. He now vies for YES. And the library happens, slowly slowly happens. Only twenty, only 20. A weird, forceful sound, like something dropping slash falling, noises in the distance, and only four more words, four, 4. 40003, we’re outta here outta here, outta here. The task is done, the writing is done, yay and yay and yay. This is the end of today’s writing , so it seems, seems, seems, seems and once more, seems. Might as well type YAY, once more and once more and once more. 40071, otta here outta here outta here. ---------------------------------------------and march 12 it is, it is. A so very windy monday morning, it was stormy slash windy all thru the night, the roof was rustling, the slight breeze threw the recycling bin ten meters to and fro, or something like that something like that. But seems that the world did not notice, the mall is happening just fine, the library in oakridge is happening just fine. So, might as well feed your words to the machine, just keep on typing, typing. A man hunched over in grey, a woman in green standing in front of the new books. And we type here type here type here type here. Author watched “tomorrow never dies” way into the wee hours of the day, this cannot be good, not that good, not that good. A writer has to wake up at seven or six, that is how good writing is done, you cannot sleep in and then type up good stuff, now can you, can you. A nice shower, exercise, a good breakfast, that is what makes a poet going. That is what makes you use the right words, the correct syntax. Not absinthe filled stupor, not staring down into your glass, no, no, nice tea with dainty gloves, ah, what is the use, author here is losing it already, already. So this is march, the news is horrible like always, the writing here does not go smoothly, everything sucks, sucks. How many words, who knows and who knows and who knows.

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This library is pretty lively, retirees and kids, the whole spectrum of humanity, and we type here type here type here type here, contorted on the barstool thingie, fast and fast and fast and fast. 40401, if she puts in 2500 each and every day, she will have reached 50 000 by the end of thursday, which means it is all typing, all week, all week, no life whatsoever, no life whatsoever. Your life wrapped around typing away, typing away. She has forty more minutes at this very station, this is the library that does not grant extra time, automatically. The one in downtown does, so does the one in richmond. And we are typing and typing and typing. Old man near the xerox machine, copying documents, documents. And we type here type here, next to the display of books, fast reads, quick views, new books fiction, those are the categories, one day, one day, author's books will be on the display, too. Maybe not in this life, though, who cares, who cares, who cares. Just keep on typing typing. The musicy sound of a cellphone, hello, hi, so and so, how are you doing. And we type and type, while our back is giving out here, out here. Woman with red mane staring at the monitor, at the 15-minute station, someone walks in the back, librarians talk in deep baritone. The sound of a child, the voice of a middle-aged woman. Ah, a monday in the library, it is 1: 13, 1:13, a woman in a turquoise fleece, long blondish hair, we type and type and type and type. --------------------------------------------one and a half pages, in half an hour, approximately 600 words, she has to save this, put it online, online. Words in neat chunks, the old man still at the copy machine talking to the woman in the beige beret, thank you very much, thank you very much. He left, their lively interaction is finished, author here looks around to write about something else. Now the woman in the beret loses her coin, the librarian in brown sweater helps, author here documents all of this, all of this. The noise of the printer, rausching, rausching. Yes, yes, a woman asks a question, someone coughs for seconds, nothing more happening, in the library, library. Let us stop the typing, for seconds, for 111

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moments. The “checkout and renewals” sign, in the distance, the distance. This library is condensed, everything is smaller, there is more to see, a bump-bump in the back, a cough, the putting back of a book, loudly, loudly. The steps of a child on the stairs, the stairs. And we have 40 808, 808, on a monday, a windy one, in vancouver, vancouver, vancouver. ---------------------------Fast, fast words. She has to feed the machine 1800 more words, at least that is what she is setting out for. On the telly, the new adventures of old Christine, and there is of course the eternal problem of watching while typing. Both endeavors are fragmented, maybe going to the library would be better. Or the community college on 49th. Or the coffee shop on arbutus. And we type here type here type here. On the telly, the med student is coming out of cadaver dissection school, apparently the cadaver was his old neighbor. The med student is matthew who is the brother of old Christine. Now it is mr. harris and somehow you can not really type coherent stuff while watching tv. Now a boost ad, and now a Disneyland ad, for some reason there are always Disneyland ads at this time. Catering to the watching demographic. And now a mc donald’s ad, golden arches. Now x-finity, all these words catapult the wordcount so very near to 41 000, thus there are only 1500 more words left, to be put in, put in. She would rather take a walk, move her body thru space, instead of sitting hunched over in a darkened room with the curtains closed. Yep, it is much more fun to write in a public place like the library, there is always something to see, whereas in here, there are two plants near the window, the brown paper basket with the filigree border, and there is still no plot, no plot whatsoever. She should take her laptop on the train, on transit, that is what the nanowrimo group does, they meet at waterfront and then go on the skytrain, get inspired by shooting thru the landscape, on the train, the train. Author here feels nauseated, ah, too much typing, too much typing, too much typing. A fresh air walk is needed here, writing a book should be fun, fun. Not 112

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struggle, not a fight with words, with grammar with syntax. 41 115 words, only 1400 more, only, only. ------------------------------------------------------------------------She ponders if one can take the laptop to a fitness center or on a walk, somewhere outside, somewhere out in the world. On the telly it is all about matthew quitting med school, he is eating cereal out of a blue bowl. And we type here, type here, type here. Typing is not good for the back, so it seems, so it seems. ----------------------------------800 words to get to 42 000 and then, maybe 500 more, she ponders if she should still stick to the 2500 words per day maxim, maybe 2000 per day is enough, enough. And this is not what the narrative of a book should be on, apparently, apparently. She was in downtown and walked through the big chain store, the bookstore, she looked at all the books, there was none that described meticuosly the days of the writer, she could be the first to do that, do that. And there is still another NEW ADVENTURES OF OLD CHRISTINE, the one with the rolling stones concert. 700 words, 700, 700. And let us type and type and type and type. Laughtrack after laughtrack, now the film pauses for a sec, we really need a plot here, we cannot just describe the plots of the stuff on the telly. Now, a progressive ad. There seems to be a progresso ad which is for a soup called progresso and there is another ad for an insurance company called progressive. Yep, that is because it is so much in line with progress if all you do is, watch the idiot box. And we type her type here type here.

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On the telly, a lot of rolling stones old-agey jokes, now matthew is saying something to Elaine, sorry, same actress, different show, and we type here type here type here type here. ---------------------------------------700 words, 700, 700. The stuff on the telly is pretty funny and that is all that counts. Now an ad. Author here ponders, if she would do a reading in a pub or a coffeeshop on a nice literary evening. Somehow, this is not what would fly there. Maybe in the library in downtown? Author ponders, readings are overrated, if you are the person who gets up in front of people and hurls your speech at people, you would not even sit in dingy room and type. So it seems so it seems. Anyhoo, let us just type and type and type and type. In the spirit of nanowrimo, just heap the words onto the page, go for 50 000, go for 100 000. And we type here type here type here type here. ----------------------------------------400 words, 400, 400, 400. Actually, more near to 300. She ponders, it is more near to 400. Writing is not about counting each and every word, it should be about substance, about having something to say. Yeah, 400, 400, 400. Ah, how to type 1000 words in one hour, one hour. Still Christine and matthew trying to get into the rolling stones concert, and still another old age joke. And the concert is over and everyone is coming out. Apparently you have to watch the show in order to understand what this writing is about. And now a carpet ad, and an ad for something called nuclear cowboys. 41 678, 41 679.

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41 683. It is 5:54, we are on page 117 here, for some reason the software just paginates the odd pages. Author hopes that paginate is the right word. And the show is over, seems that now it is time for king of queens. Ah, sitcoms, sitcoms, sitcoms. 270 words, 270, 270, 270. The heater in this place is still broken, you have to huddle in one room with an electric heater, it is better to stay outside, in heated malls, even the street seems to be much much much warmer. Well, at least the wind, the storm is over. And we type here type here type here type here. Last week at this time, author here participated in a talk, listened in to a talk in the central library, 5 authors sharing their secrets. The main thing was that you have to write each and every day, somehow the texts will morph into something good, something worth reading, worth publishing. Thus, we just type here and type here and type here. Feels kinda silly just to heap on the words indiscriminately, but seems that is what it takes, takes. And still some more words some more words some more words. 41 883, 41 883. A yoghurt ad, an ad for a tv-show with vampires, an ad for, well, it is the end of this ad run. Now a talk between deacon and doug. 90 more words, 90, 90. Holly comes in, although this is another scene. Some more words, some more words, some more words, some more words. 60 more words, 60, 60. An ad for home depot or something else, nope, it is home depot. An ad for a salad dressing, an xfinity ad. 30 more words, 30, 30. A public storage place ad, this is so boring. Author ponders, she should go out and find a plot, somewhere, somehow. Six more words, ah, six and six and six. And 42 003 it is, it is. ----------------------------

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And now, project runway, a twizzlers ad, an oil diffuser ad, whatever that is. A Victoria secrets ad, and now, an ad for chocolate. Author here ponders if she should still type some more, it is just way too cold to go for a walk, the broken heater will be fixed tomorrow, the plumber just called, but hey, at this point it is just good to bundle up and type and type and type and type. Writers should exercise, they do not have to sit around and get pale-skinned, but we might just type today, be on a big typing spree, maybe the words will get better along the way, along the way. Project runway is an interesting show, people making things, more or less the same thing as people smushing together words, some better than others, some worse than others. There is nothing wrong with a tad of healthy competition, and we type here type here type here type here. 42 173 words, just 300 more, 300, 300. And we type here type here. Not that good to write a whole book using the same elements, the same words, the same sentences again and again. On the telly, all the different fashion designers, each talking to the camera, their ideas, anyhoo, who doesn’t like fashion, the show speaks, basically, to everybody. And now an ad for Tostitos and salsa, author ponders if she should still go out and buy, well, chips. Now an ad for hamburger helper, now chocolate, now hair dye. And we type we type we type we type. Now an ad for super store, stupid store, somehow watching tv is not that good for writing, not that conducive to superior eloquent speech. But she has said that before, seems, we are just stealing from ourselves, ah, how can one fashion that much bullshit, constantly, constantly, constantly, constantly. 200 more words, 200, 200, 200, 200. There is something to be said for filling the pages with utter nonsense, sidestepping all the big ideas of this world, yep, lots of big thinkers have filled books with, well, big thoughts, there is a place for slight stuff here, why not why not why not, why not. Only 200 words, 200, 200, 200, 200. 116

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Still typing, still writing. 100 pages, 100, 100. Yay, 2500 words, pretty good, pretty good for one day. 2500 words, so very very near. An ad for JEFF WHO LIVES AT HOME, just keep on typing, typing. An ad for a MUPPETS video. Author’s head starts spinning, maybe, just starting to type will not automatically make you write good. The pauses in between writing spurts, that is where it is at, it is at. It is getting dark outside, she might as well call it a day, stay in and wrap up her writing. Exercise has to wait, just watch project runway, just type and type and type. And 42 497 it is, it is. 42 500, yay, the like the like the like. ------------------------------------------------------------march 14- pretty nice to once more starting to type away, type away. After a nice day of nontyping, which was kinda weird, the real world seems to be more annoying, the artificial world of making something new, even if it is just taking existing elements (words) and rearranging them in slightly new configurations, in slightly augmented ways, that is definitely more satisfying then thinking on the spot, trying to react correctly to events and persons, the ping-pongish, tennisy way of responding in conversations is not author’s thing, not her forte. There is a reason why we are not Martina Navratilova here, we are much too slow much too slow much too slow. In writing, you are creating your own world, play by your own rules, at least that is how it seems, how it seems. Given, that you react to the room you are sitting in, to the keyboard you are using, but you can still go out on a limb, you can do something for an extended amount of time, let the words feed upon each other, you cannot do that when you are reacting constantly, your life becomes too fragmented, too exhausting. And we type here type here type here. You need the right balance between stimulation from the outside and the drive to make something, so it seems, so it seems, so it seems. 117

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Author just was at a meeting where the difference between knowledge assembling aka research in art and science was discussed, so that is kind of heavily weighing on her writing here. And we type and type and type and type and type. Author feels a cold gripping her, it is better to just keep on writing, maybe the cold will just vanish, go away, on its own, on its own, she feels feverish, she should just keep on typing, typing. She is not wearing enough layers, her jacket is arguably nice, but, hey, it is much too cold, much too cold. Ah, to die for fashion, you either look presentable or like a frump, and we can do both here, both here. 42 855, gotta get to 45 000, by midnight, by midnight. And to think that she did not write a lick the day before, that is why we are so much behind, so much behind. Could have gotten to 50 000 by Thursday, now the world of literature has to wait and scramble, without her grand musings, her grandiose bullshit. Anyhoo, let us still type, let us still type, still type, still type, still type, still type. Barely 43 000, barely 43 000. Time to leave this place, time to have lunch or something, a burger, why not, ah, why not, gotta feed that cold, gotta, gotta, gotta. Author ponders, she has had her weekly allotment of talks already, she was at a reading of 3 local authors in the downtown library, one was good, one was soso, one stank, she listened in to this design research thingie, that is it, for this week, for this week. You do not need that many information to catapult your writings forward, you just need to type and type and type. You do not need inspiration, you need transpiration. And we type and type and type and type and type. 43057, ah well, ah well. The library here in the art school, at two in the afternoon, on a reluctantly forceful Wednesday, after flurries stopped bathing the city, her car is parked in the basement of the parking garage, the tires seem tired and too flatish, she hopes the car will make it home, will make it home, will make it home. the woman in gray and long, long, very black hair, with a pen that has a little dolly hanging from it, ah, the day the day the day. 118

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On the telly, an ad for jcp or jc penney as they say. As they say, now there is a platitude, and now THE BIG BANG THEORY, the one where penny moves in. Sheldon is giving penny info about HIS SPOT and why it is his spot. It is just pretty funny, laughtracks laughtracks traughtracks. And we type type type. 43 208 words, this is not really good for writing excellent words, watching the idiot box and giggling at all these rerun-jokes. In a room with the curtains closed, with the two plants near the window and the brown paper basket which has a filigree border. And we type here type here type here. Some more words, some more words, some more words. The coffeeshop on arbutus sure has more to describe than this little room, Virginia wulff nonwithstanding. Author here is not quite sure if she uses “nonwithstanding” in the right way, but, hey, that is the life of a writer. Just like sitting in a too chilly room typing and typing and typing. 43 325, she just needs 1700 more words. An ad for a learning institution, seems it is some online place. And we type type type type. Just writing about your typing, might not cut it, might not cut it. Today is the 101st birthday of an origami master that is why there is a google doodle celebrating that. Just thought I throw that in here. Author really has enough of typing, she should go out and have some more fresh air, she went to 41st in the morning, through the mid march flurries of vancouver, in mid morning too boot. Anyhoo, let us type type type, hunched over, ah, the dowdiest of endeavors, dowdiest of art forms, typing, writing, typing. Nobody knows where typing ends and where writing starts except for, maybe, Truman Capote. Let us type, let us type, let us type. All day long all day long. An ad for papa john’s pizza, an ad for a matress. And now, a woman impersonating bette davis, as fun as that 119

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is, let us just change to NEW CHRISTINE, sorry, OLD CHRISTINE. Author ponders, how will she ever be able to convince an agent to represent her, if all she writes about is what seems to be so very banal stuff. Stuffi-muffi, stuffi-muffi. 43 534, 43 535. Words and word and words. Five oh nine, and we just need 1500 words, seems, that anywords will do, will do. Would be better to have some kind of plot, but, hey, plots are overrated. Especially, if you just have none, none. And if you don’t really believe in them. Lots of texts slither around somewhere between fiction and non-fiction. And we type type, 43 600 it is, it is. An ad for public storage, an ad for mattresses. And x-finity. Now back to OLD CHRISTINE. Did we mention the two plants near the window, the brown paperbasket, the one with the white-ish filigree basket. Author ponders, she should have written in the public library, either the one in oakridge, or the one in kerrisdale. There is nothing going on in here, except for the stuff on the telly. A subway ad, an ad for great wolf lodge, whatever that is, wherever that is. An ad for THE OFFICE. And once more, OLD CHRISTINE, old Christine. Some laughtracks, some laughtracks, some laughtracks. 43 709, typing and typing and typing. So, 1300 words, fast and fast and fast. It is pretty tough to wax on and on about the inability to find nice words. On the telly, Christine is having wine with marly and the other blond woman. Only 1250 more, and we are there, we are there. Author ponders, if she should change her position, sit somewhere else, in order to overcome her writer’s block. It is not technically writer’s block, she sure finds stuff to feed to the machine here, question is, is it literature, is it literature. But is it art, the eternal question. And we are typing, still typing, still typing. An ad for carpets, for flooring. A new episode of “the new adventures of old 120

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Christine”. We need only 1200, by the time, the second episode of king of queens is over, we should be there, should be there. She could start describing the monitor, the little icons, the toolbar. That should fill the page, move the wordcount forward. She could read the news, be inspired by current affairs instead of by the lipstick ad or the bengay ad. By the talkings of matthew on the telly, by all these ever changing images, by the short and happy laugh tracks. That is good, describing the different ways this text could move into, its probable and possible incarnations. You do not really have to write a novel, you just leave it in the blueprint stage. Do a sketch and never ever execute it. Anyhoo, let us type and type and type and type and type. 43973, so very very very near to 44000. Just some more words, just some more words, just some more words, just some- you get the drift. Against the tightness in the left shoulder, the dull pangs of sitting too contorted, those ones, those ones, those ones. An ad for a burger, an ad for sleep country. Hmm, forty-four and one hundred and three, this is going pretty good, pretty good. Even, though author here missed a day of writing, missed a day of writing. She is not quite sure if she wrote on the thirteenth, nope, she definitely did not write on the thirteenth. You know with bad luck and all. She should just keep on typing, even though it is slight gibberish, inconsequential blabbing, anyhoo, let us type and type and type. Words describing the state of typing, yep, that will do it, should do it. And 44 017 it is, it is. Only one thousand more, fast and fast and fast. Another THE OFFICE ad, seems that is how they fill the tv time, by eluding to the show to come. And now an ad for a repair cream for wrinkled agey skin. Yeah, that’ll work. An ad for a sandwich company, an ad for x-finity. Not that author has the slightest idea what x-finity is. An ad for THE NEXT TOPMODEL, somehow, author here thinks that she pushed the wrong button, some of the words just got magically erased. Dissolved into thin air, somehow, somehow, somehow. That did not happen with 121

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old typewriters, typewriters. On the telly, laughtracks, laughtracks, laughtracks. And a kfc ad it is, outside the evening is blanketing vancouver, slowly, slowly. You can see the outside thru the slit in the curtains, and we type forward, type forward. Got to be chained to the computer, gotta type type type. And now, KING OF QUEENS. All the sitcoms that dictate its songs to the writer, this better be good, better be good. And 700 we need, 700, 700, 700, 700. She feels a cold coming on, that happens when you are willing yourself to type up a certain amount of words. Whether they function properly, whether they clog around. They just have to be fed to the machine, that is how it is, how it should be. Somehow, the words will morph into something good, something arguably worth reading. Author ponders, she participated in a reading the day before, but she mentioned that already, mentioned that. One of the writers was really good, there is no way that anyone could object to his writing. Author had had the same kind of feeling about the writer two years ago, the woman from Calgary working on her MFA in creative writing, her writing was just good, so very very very good. Sometimes, the choice of words flows extremely easy and lots of times, well, it just doesn’t, doesn’t. The trick is to keep on writing, a certain amount of words, each and every day, each and every day. Quantity, yep, it inevitably begets quality, that is how it is, how it should be. And we type here type here type here type here. 500 more, 500, 500. It is six and fourteen, she is completely outta words, completely, so very very completely. She ponders about how many letters there are in a line, now there, is something to write about. Something aside from the wordcount, the slight chilliness, the laughtracks and the ads. Something even more boring than the two plants near the window and the brown paper basket with the white

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filigree border. And we need 430 more words, ah, to be finished, to be finished here. Writing as chore, typing as chore. 405 words, fast, fast, fast. It is the end of KING OF QUEENS, her wordcount is moving forward, this must be the fifth sitcom rerun she is watching today, all these laughtracks translate very easily into writing. Writings. Author here ponders if she should still write some more about the process of writing, might be too boring, though, might be, might be, might be. And still another ad, for the same online educational firm, the one that advertized before. And a salad dressing ad, still another ad for mattresses. An ad for a burger. And we type here type here type here. A lawyer pitching his own firm, and again, the salad dressing. 300 more words, 300, 300. Yay, another episode of king of queens. It is so very cold on the telly, just like the chilliness in this very room. And we type here type here type here. Yep, on the telly, new york in winter, the big ips truck, the red train, the music. Still another ad, still another ad. This time, geico. Ritz crackers. And we type we type we type. 220 words, 220, 220. So very near to 45000, pretty impressive, pretty impressive. 200 words, 200, 200. Very very very fast. Just repeat the same words, that should move the wordcount forward. 44 812 words, she types up all these numbers, not as interesting as zombies, vampires, queens, princesses. But it still fills the pages, fills the pages. We are officially out of words, ah, to be sitting cooped up at the computer, it sure forces you to type, the lack of distraction however stifles the story, the non-story. The keyboard of a typewriter,

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so very very different from the keyboard of a piano. Author ponders, is there is something to elaborate on, differences and similarities of music and literature, anyhoo, another j. c. penney ad, ellen de generes, it is pretty funny. Funny, funny, funny. An ad for a sandwich company, an ad for Toyotas. And it is back to king of queens. 70 more words, 70, 70. Just type just type just type. Outside, dusk says hello to the night, that sounds pretty poetic, it is not true, though, one can still easily make out the different leaves on the trees. And we still type, fast, fast, against the laugh tracks, against the simple jokes, fourteen more words, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen. The marathon runner in the end zone, not that marathon runners are in end zones, but, hey, we can easily mix sport lingos here, and 45 015 it is, outta here, ah, outta here, outta here. --------------------------------------------march 15- in the library at oakridge, ready to type up 2500 words, gotta reach 47500, by the end of the day, by midnight. Author ponders, what time will it be in new york city, in zurich, melbourne, is the term MIDNIGHT not totally random, her adhering to all these self-imposed rules will not make her into a good writer, it will make her a candidate for an OCD experimental med. A research subject or something, something. And we type here, type here, type here, type here. -------------------------------march 16- and so it is, so it is. Once more in the art school library, at the keyboard that fights you every step of the way, on a rainy march day, somewhere after lunch, with a view of the street and of a woman in blue chewing gum, some blue in the middle of dark and light, typing and typing and typing and typing. It is time to doze off, that happens when you are wearing way too many layers, when you just had lunch, when it is grey outside, when you are sitting in the same typing place where you have sat so 124

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many many times before, when the keyboard is stalling, when phlegma gets the better of you, when the printer noises, twice, twice. When the days are all the same, when you are not quite sure why you are a writer, when you wish you were somewhere else, somewhere else. Ah, time to go to the airport, time to watch the planes take off, time to dream of places far away, far away. Time to go on you tube and watch films of trolley rides in Zimbabwe or Zurich, everything will do but to watch the lowly Canadian flag flickering in the trees below the bridge. Ah, to sit in a pub and drink yourself into oblivion, would not work for author here, she is more a girl of sugar highs and fat orgies, yep, and we type some type some type some. Gotta fill the page, the wordcount gotta gallop, and we use way to many G’s in the text, in the text. Ah, the day and the day and the day and the day and the day. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------she should have been a musician, songs, tones, ah, musickey music. She should go up to the painting studio, there is a new exhibition, there always is, there always, always is. Forms, lines, volumes. The smiles, the laughters, for seconds, moments. The social awkwardness that is baffling but fleeting. Ah, and we could just go on typing, go on typing. She realizes this is one of her strongest pieces to date, you never know when the muse strikes you down, it is slightly and reluctantly baffling, baffling. Yep, she could read this any time to a crowds in a darkened room, yep, why not and why not and why not? She pushed the print button by accident, instead of the save button, that won’t work, won’t work here, gotta spellcheck first, gotta spellcheck first, gotta spellcheck first. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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nausea sets in, time to take the white-ish keyboard and smash it onto the head of the woman in grey and black, the one with the swirly-ish shawl, ah, the rage of a writer, as frightening as the rage of a knitter. And have you seen those bridge-playing lunatics with their glasses hanging from their ears in alabaster pearls. Yep, time to type up nonsense, so very neat to real sense. Ah, what is the wordcount the wordcount. One can hear the sound of the dryer in the washroom, it doesn’t end doesn’t end. So, this is how insanity feels, how it smells. Yay, yay, just keep on typing typing. Your parking expires way too soon, the machine took her money, way way way way too much. The machine is defect, intendedly, so that it can eat up your coins, all of them all of them. Ah, it is her against the world. There are conspirators lurking every where, ah, everywhere. And we write write, against the tedium of a day in march, an anyday in march. -----------------------------------------------------------this is not good for the body, to merely sit still in front of a type writer, she can feel the stagnation, the slight pangs in between her middle rib cage and her lower ribcage, she ponders if ribcage is the place in front of you versus the place at the back of you, it is pretty good to write about anatomy with the knowledge of a plumber, author here is not quite sure if the reader of this can understand her words, but, hey, that is how it always is, always always always is. She is not even sure if she is a writer, she watched the young woman next to her upload her drawings for a first year illustration course, there were the so very good drawings of a clock, though they seemed to be drawn by another person, anyways, that is what happens in an art school library. There is typing going on here, yeah, there are typers, but we are all on hiatus here, we should hold pencils, but we are running away from the pencils, to talk and talk and talk to the keyboard, to buy time, time, between the visual stuffi-muffi, stuffi-muffi. Author here looked up what is happening in the bowery poetry club today, they have a theater thingie going on, somehow, real real art only happens in nyc, at 126

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least that is how author here sees it sees it. And let’s type and type and type some more. Before collapsing before collapsing. Over the keyboard or maybe on the floor beneath the keyboard, for more drama, more drama. The sun is coming out, yay. Yay. Flurry clouds against babyblue sky. Yay. And still another illustrator, yeah, scan, ah scan. Could be an animator though an animator though. Just type and type and type. Wrestle with the stupid keyboard, for moments in eternity, eternity. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ok, maybe some more words some more words, author feels like a basket weaver, not that she ever weaved any baskets. But, hey, putting words to the keyboard, repetitive repetitive. More like brick laying , maybe, you take the same elements from a heap, yay, bricklaying it is it is. The allegory, the metaphor stinks, bricks are all the same, words are slightly different, author here is confused, that happens on a Friday afternoon in the art school library, where you have to type fast, fast, against the closing of this place at five, against the expiring parking at three, anyhoo, just type, type, type. Something smells here, yuck, yuck. Ah, to type up literature using words like yuck, cannot be good, not that good not that good not that good. Geez, gotta use big words, slang will not do it, not cut it. The ocean factory, still majestic majestic. The bridge, a blue flag, the like the like the like. And we type here type here, while listening in to the typing the typing. Against all the noise, all of the noise all of the noise. And stop and stop and stop. For now, for now and for now, for now. -----------------------------------------------------------46 232 words, maybe a run for 47 000. On the telly, the dick van dyke show, it is pretty funny. It is about dick van dyke doing a stay-awake-a-thon. And, obviously, there are way more important 127

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issues than some 50-year-old show on tv, there is a cheese ad, there is a washing powder ad. A fabric softener ad. Somehow writing should be a tad about more, writing should be engaging, it should hold the reader’s attention, not let go, not let go. Kinda tough, if your writing is drowned by laughtracks and too loud music. Author read this interview on paris review, a poet talking about his writings. But let’s digress, it’s the Bob Newhart show, somehow that has to translate to good writing or at least into driving the wordcount here forward, forward. The letters on the monitor are oversized, there should be a button somewhere to zoom in, to zoom in. Author here does not really feel like writing, her back on the left side hurts, in the middle of the shoulder, but that is not really that important, gotta write, gotta type. Meticulously, meticulously. Meticulously. 46 422 words, she could just put this off, do all of her writings over the weekend, shoot for 50000, 50 000. ---------------------------march 17- in the downtown library, on the third floor, opposite of the pin wall with the plays and audition notices. A woman is standing in front of it, perusing the calls for audition, she left. She has nice boots, nice hair, a nice jacket. So this is how out-of-work actresses look like, all the julia robertses who are, well, not julia roberts. There is another part of the pin wall, the one that says literary events. Author ponders, apparently her name is not on that wall. She will not do a reading in the near future, then again, she could make her way to the open mic on trafalgar and 4th. Yep, they have an open mic there, each and every saturday. Just be there in time, at seven, put your name on the list and then wait to make a fool of yourself for five minutes straight. The audience will clap for whatever you do, they will not throw a drink at you except if they want to celebrate st. patrick's day. At the other computer station a young lad in glasses, a plaid shirt and some kind of hat that says I am slightly artistic but not that artistic. The artistic kind that will go somewhere, intelligently artistic. The glasses say the same. Author ponders, looks up, maybe, the uniform of 128

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that person screens more I AM A GEEK. He looks like wolowitz, you know, from big bang. And we type and type and type here. A woman in black leggings in front of the literary events wall, her hair is very high, and now a child in red boots in front of the literary wall, her brother behind her, they are called by their parents. A woman in white, a lady in a fur hat. And we type we type we type. Someone coughs, pretty sniffed up. The woman in the fur hat wears red brimmed glasses, the person next to her wears green brimmed glasses. And we type here type here type here type here, there is a sign that says social science audio, the escalator noises, a man in a brown toque slithers by. Someone with a canucks jacket, the day marches forward, forward. Slightly reluctantly, slightly forceful. Yep, a lazy saturday, she types types types typesd. There is a poster on the wall, the one that says “one woman circus”. Author remembers that woman, she had a show called “duck you” at the fringe fest in september. She gave her card to author, said come and watch me at six near the duck pond. There were no ducks at that time, the woman was very nice. And we type here type here type here type here. The woman looked as if she was twelve years old, but according to her website she was 25 years older than that. Anyhoo, we type here type here type here type here. Man that looks funny sits at the other computerstation, funny hat, funny beard, funny jacket. But he looks very serious, apparently he does not think he looks funny. He looks like Sherlock Holmes or something, like a sleuth. Author ponders, who would run around looking like that, like a relict from 100 years ago. Maybe it is a costume and he is part of a play. Actually, given that it is st patrick's day, there are a lot of people in weird getups around town, but, hey, it has to be green, green. Or else, you are just bizarre and strange. Anyhoo, we type here type here type type here. 34 more minutes on this computer, she might as well keep on typing, gotta reach 50 000, yay, yay, how hard can it be, how hard can it really be. This is author's fourth year of constant typing, constant writing, four years ago she used to write longhand, then transcribe it, then send it out. So far no publishing

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contract, none, none, none. Two readings though, e-querying agents in canada, the uk, the us. A three-country staggering quest for publishers and agents. And we type here, type here type here type here type here, maybe it is better so, the journey is half the fun or all the fun, so they say so they say so they say. We have still thirty minutes, author is not quite sure if this station will automatically give you another hour, who knows and who knows and who knows. The woman at the other station is talking to herself, more like humming, it is very annoying and scary, too, scary, too. Bizarre, yeah, that might be the right word the right word. Anyhoo, we t type here type here type here type here Kid stomps loudly, jumps up, jumps down, and we type type type type. 47271, 47271. ----------------------------and nausea is setting in, dull pangs in the right shoulder, a headache that is not really there, someone sneezes loudly. Author always finds booboos, once she starts to type, once she starts to type. Typing is so boring, so very very repetitive. Especially if you do not have something to say and author never ever has something to say. An author without a message, and someone coughs, disgustedly, disgustingly. And we type here type here type here type here. Author hopes that nobody scary sits down at the computer station next to her, she is easily scared, ah, so easily scared. A person on the train asked her where she lived, author answered “ I do not understand”. And then left at the next station, running for her life. It was pretty funny, at least in retrospect. The person was arguably harmless, but, hey, never talk to strangers, never never never. And some more typing some more typing. The loudspeaker announcing storytime, anyhoo, we type and type and type some more. The woman in red is reading, the woman in white is not. Wolowitz on the other station is typing typing. Apparently he is not a physicist, but a writer, ah, the competition, the competition. And we type here type here type here type here. She ponders how many of the 130

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nanowrimo crowd made it, how many of them how many. apparently you just gotta send your stuff out, somebody will read it, should read it. Wolowitz sneezes, he has a tattoo on his hand. Ah so very unwolowitzish. And we type we type we type. Only seven more minutes, only seven, only seven. ---------------------------------author here booked another hour, yay, she can type some more type some more. We might as well reach 50 000, she could go down to richmond, use the library system there, to type and type and type. And then there is UBC, there is Langara, there is …, yep, you can basically type up anna karenina if you are so inclined, so inclined. You don't need a room of yourself, not anymore, not anymore. I guess you need inspiration or something, you need a message, you need a plot. A good enough plot. Some kinda narrative, something, anything. You need to have stamina, stamina. You need readers, readers. And we type here we type here we type here. 47686, yay, yay, yay. ------------------------------apparently, the reasoning behind a novel being 100 000 words long is that that is the wordcount you need to construct a story, she read that somewhere online, it does not really make any sense, you can tell a story in three words, something like boy meets girl, girl meets boy, even shorter, soandso dies, one noun, one verb. Author ponders, if push comes to shove, all of her writings can be basically condensed into “I”, yep, everything she writes is basically a selfportrait. Anyhoo, we type here type here type here type here. Gotta slouch slowly to 48 000, how hard can it be, how hard, how hard. She feels sick, she is wearing too many layers. Two T-shirts, a turtle-neck, 2 pairs of socks, a too warm hat, it is not really the time to bundle up this much. Spring is a-coming, a-

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coming. And let's type and type and type. And type. 47 846, let's write let's write let's write. Or save or save or save. Yay. ---------------------------------------------march 18- so just sit down and type type type. Took her forever to book this computer station on the third floor of the central library, station CEN354, somebody was sitting here and playing solitaire, seems the library is outbooked, everybody, everybody is here, on a rainy sunday, using the computers, using this place. A woman, a hurried one, is sitting next to author, staring at the computer, she is downloading some kind of document and it is not working, there is this overlanky teen who tried to snatch this computer from author in the same way that she tried to snatch the computer on sixth from the short guy with glasses. You can book the computers, apparently, if the machine allows you to use the computer, then you can then you can. Somebody sneezes, author feels discomfortable, the library is kinda weird and her text is stalling a-stalling. She has to type, she has to write. We have 48 019 words here, so it seems so it seems. She might make it to 50 000, yay and yay and yay. What is it good for, nobody knows, nobody knows. Just a reaffirmation that she has used her winter, her spring to type up stuff, type up stuff. But, hey, apparently she is not james joyce yet, not yet, ah, not yet. Besides, this is not her calling, the solitary life of a writer, she feels weird and strange to glance at people on the subway, trying to observe them, to non-observe them. She has this very thick book next to this computer, the one that says THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS, apparently it is some kind of autobiography by this journalist named Novak, robert d. novak. Author here remembers him, he was always on tv, he wrote for a chicago newspaper, maybe the chicago chronicle or something, he was pretty good, the book says 60 years of journalism or writing, author ponders, how would it feel to do this for 60 years. And we type here type here type here type here. A woman goes by with a bookcart, author looks up, yep, it really is a 132

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woman. A woman with shorter ashenish blondish hair and an aloofy look, she leans over the bookcart as she would lean over a stroller. And we type here type here type here type here. We still have 38 minutes, author ponders, what would happen if one of those apocalyptic, one of those armageddon meteors would fall onto the vancouver public library here, her masterpiece would never be, never be. Then again, it would be still sailing thru the clouds, it will be preserved for posterity. And that is what counts, counts, counts. We don’t need no time capsules, everything and anything is stored in the cloud, the cloud. Anyhoo, lets type and type and type and type. Pacific Center was still filled with shamrocky hats, with green and white striped felt cylinder hats, women were wearing shamrock necklaces, balloons were everywhere, green and green and green. Wasn't this yesterday, is it kosher to celebrate st. patties after the fact? Author ponders, she should get ready for nowruz, she has to call people up, she has to, has to. But, hey, gotta write too, gotta type gotta type. 32 minutes and thirty-seven seconds, her masterpiece, her masterpiece, hers, hers, hers. People talking and murmuring, a woman coughing. A young blond woman in a lightblue parka, in the distance the English Fiction stacks, author ponders, will her novels, her masterpieces be there too, one day, one day, one day. Who needs fame and fortune, she needs a grandma burger at an A&W. and we type here type here type here type here and once more, type here. ----------------------------------48 485 words on march 19 – it is 11:52 AM, for some reason there is a yellow sun in a purple surrounding near the time number on the lower right corner of the monitor, and it vanished and nobody knows why. Sitting on the fifth floor of the library, at one of those sunken computer stations, which kind of makes it tough to type, you sit utterly contorted, very very hunched over,

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the keyboard is a tad askew, author ponders if this is how great works are penned, and the term PENNED is not even accurate, we are typing here, not holding a pen. Someone coughs, there is slow typing going on here, she can see the persons on the floor above, you can do that, the layout of the library is that way, is that way. And we type type type type here. There is a MICROFICHE place in the distance, there are two women coming, one in plaid, one in black, there is the music from one of the walkmen, there is a figure coming from the right. There is the person with the red basketball cap with bored eyes, there is the woman with green sweater and too much bosom, there is the drizzly day happening, outside, outside. There was a staged protest going on outside, in front of the CBC building, some kind of film, some kind of movie shoot. And we type here type here type here type here. The equinox will be at 11 in the night, ah, beginning of spring, beginning of spring. Norooz, nowrooz, norooz. Author is not quite sure how to spell norooz in english, you really can't now, can you? And we type and type and type and type here,. Words, ah, words, ah, words. Four eight seven seven six, might as well make it to 50 000, and what did you do this winter? Oh, I typed up 50 000, 50 000, 50 000. Person sits at the other computer, with some weird sickeningy smell, too sweet, way way way way too sweet. If you sit in a public place, please, avoid perfuming yourself, avoid drenching yourself in any whiff you can get your hands on, we all like to breathe breathe, you cannot do that when everyone wants to smell a certain way, smell a certain way. And we type here type here type here type here. 34 more minutes, author has to be vigilant to book this place for another hour, for another hour. And gotta type, gotta type. One can see information written on the sign to the left, twice, once in plain sight, once in reverse, author is not good at describing what she sees, the perfume here is deafening, that is why, that is why. And we type here type here type here type here. Against the woman walking in the distance with the blackgrey backpack and the little red dolly hanging from it, against the cough in the back, to the right,

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against the murmurs coming up from below, below. Person sneezes, person in black sweater with skeleton thereon. Ah, to write, to type, on a drizzly morning next to noon, ah, the last day of winter, winter. And the coke can opens up, loudly, clashingly. All these words that are so absurd, that do not really mean anything, anything. The text could use some spellcheck, she should sit up straight, verenque he neck, the day, ah, the day the day. And 49 055 it is it is. Four nine oh five fiver. ----------------------------------------------in the community college on 49th, she is typing typing. She definitely overuses this place, at least twice a week, they should have some kind of community card, but they don’t have one don’t have one. Most colleges do have something like that, this one does not. So she always has to fill out something to use this place, which is slightly inconvenient and definitely not good for the environment. And…we type, yeah, type and type and type and type. Her arms are too tired, somehow typing is just that, tiring, who would have thought, who, who, who. Seems so easy, you are not lifting heavy weights, but still, exhaustion is so very palpable, palpable. On the other hand, if she does not write, she is equally exhausted, as if she did not brush her teeth, though that has nothing to do with exhaustion, author here does not make sense, not that much, not that much, not that much. A woman at the other station is typing up stuff, seems, it is time for midterm essays or something, all the papers are due, due. Author ponders, how long is the semester here, will it be over in april, she could look it up, she could, she could. But first gotta type, gotta type. 49 233, the text snails forward, slowly, so very very slow. A tortoise of a novel, ah and ah and ah. Let us type let us type. The woman at the other station types while looking at her textbook, she reads from the book and writes, how do you spell plagiarism? We type here type here type here. The day so slowly, so tiring, trying, a man in a so very green jacket, he has red hair, that is how it is how it is. Author ponders, her writing is slightly substandard, so it seems, so it seems. We do not need a plot 135

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here, do we, now, do we. She finished art school in may of 2010, she writes and types ever since, ever since. This better be good, better be good, but, hey, it isn’t, it isn’t it isn’t. And all the fishings for compliments, they ain’t gonna work ain’t gonna work. 49 383, 49 384. Actually, 49 400, after spellcheck, after, after. --------------------------------------------march 20- so, Persian new year, Iranian new year, norooz, norooz, norooz. The equinox ten after ten, eleven after ten, the night before, sometime after the beginning of Seinfeld. First day of spring in Vancouver, borderline nice, yay, at least it does not rain. A very happy day, just, because. Author here is very happy, she is anyways the type who will make it to the Caspian sea in order to stay away from the festivities. It is much more fun like that, travelling when the holidays are there. Though, there is of course always the rule that suicides go up if you are alone on the holidays, so, maybe watching Seinfeld at the time of the equinox is not the bestest of choices. But, anyways, we type here type here type here type here. Gotta get to 50 000, fast and fast and fast and fast.

------------------------------------------49 555, more words more words, more words. Just to heap on an indiscriminate amount of words, while the cold is grapping author here by the throat, the cold at the beginning of its cycle, so hard so hard so hard. Author had 1000 milligrams of vitamin C, a relict from the past, in the times of linus pauling, in the sixties it was believed that ample amounts of vitamin c will just sniff out upcoming sniffles, seems that did not really work, if you have a cold you just have to brace yourself for seven days of doom, seven days of doom. There is, apparently, nothing you can do, one way or the other, one way or the other. Just gotta stay warm, just gotta live your life, just gotta 136

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starve your cold or feed it, whatever suits you, whatever suits yer. And we type here type here type here type here. Hopefully her health will not deterioate, hopefully it will just stay that way stay that way. There was a haft sin near the entrance of the caf, so beautiful, so very very nice. And we type here type here type here. 49744, fast and fast and fast. ---------------------------------------still 250 more, just to make it to 50 000, the story without a plot, without any any any any plot. The winners, well, the quarterfinalists of the amazon breakout novel were just announced, the 250 ones that made it to the second round. 250 in general fiction and 250 in young adult. Author couldn’t care less, she did not even make it to the first round, ah, juries, what do they know do they know. Except, of course, if you are picked by a jury, if you do make the cut, then, of course, competitions rule, rule. The trick might well be that you just keep on submitting your stuff, there will be a festival called ART IN ODD PLACES in October, the deadline for application will be on april fifteenth, midnight pacific. Or atlantic, either one, author ponders if she should get her ducks in order and apply, apply, in time. No reason for missing another deadline, one of many, one of many. If you are a contractor, though, that is your thing, you cannot really be a contractor, if you meet deadlines. Anyhoo, let’s type, type, fast, furious, totally unimportant stuff, totally, totally, totally. Author here ponders, she should make her way down to the market, have some kind of lunch, some kind of lunch. 49 973, just run to the finish line, fast fast fast, have the happy feel in your stomach that you wrote 50 000 words, that you finished 50 000 come spring, well, came spring. Grammar is off, syntax is off, always, eternally, we are no gifted writer here, but, hey, 50034 it is, it is, it is, it is. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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nausea is setting in, not that good to be chained to this computer here in the back of the art school library, the one that is facing the wall. While the world outside is marching forward, jumping forward, happily, while the sun is out, while spring frolics and dances, but, hey, author is just sitting at the computer, next to the person who is so very serious and who is constantly scanning stuff, anyhoo, we type here type here type here, trying to be a serious worker, where in fact we are only cyberstalking anyone we ever knew, this cannot be good, not that good. Better to type better to write, author ponders if there will be a painter’s forum, painters’ talk, there usually is one on tuesday, but somehow she feels way too sick, even way to sick to even move, it is adequately warm here, she might just sit here until way into the night, because her heater still does not work, and anywhere outside is still warmer than her place, though it is pretty tiring to kill time in all these borderline warm places, pretty tiring. Author ponders if her prose slithers somewhere between “waxing” and ”rambling”, if her words are sharp enough, concise enough, somehow she is feeling that the world of literature is losing her, losing her. Yes, she has staying power, she is able to type up ten pages per day, but is that enough, now, is it, is it? There are all those people who are in favor of the “you‘ve got to have something to say” maxim, those are the ones who do not like the “writing for writing’s sake” maxim, author ponders, she should really write a manifesto, something like TYPISTS UNITE, anyone who types is automatically a writer, there is this derogatory tackling of typists as lower life forms in popular culture, as if typists are just hired hands, nope, that has to change, has to, has to- author here is not quite sure if she has a fight worth picking here, if you can be fascinated by the process of typing and thus elevate it into the spheres of literature. . .- somehow her logic is not quite there not quite there not quite there. But, it should be noted, we have now officially 50 400 words, ah, what a roundish number, yay and yay and yay. Author feels cold, her hands are starting to become icy, she should just keep on typing, keep on typing. She ponders, you

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usually have to call your elders and say eydetan mobarak, but, hey, it seems, that author here is now officially one of the elderly people, which is just fine, she does not really have to call people up, she can just sit back and relax, and do her typings, her typings, and it always helps to jump from thought to thought, from idea to idea, and we type here type here type here type here. 50 530, 50 531. Time to wrap this up. Time to join the world, the persons alive, the streets, the urban, the like, the like, the like. World, here I come, to feel the breeze against my skin, to throw my beret into the air, relive a mary tyler moore moment or a “that girl” one, whichever, whichever whichever. Yep, reruns run my life, 4 now, for now, for now. Time to leave, time to join the living, bloody computer, let me out of your fangs, out of your fangs. ---------------------------------------------now on the third floor in the downtown library, facing the rack that says “social sciences magazines”. Behind author, the escalator rattling, a cough, a rustle that she has no clue what it is. Maybe it is typing, yeah, could be could be. The person next to author is watching bill cosby on you tube, well, if you watch funny stuff, everything is fine fine. Another cough, author just had a banana loaf with chocolate chips or maybe chocolate pieces, she had a chamomile tea, she is so very watchful for her health, is worried, watches her throat, well, if you can watch your own throat, that is, she constantly tears down her beige woolen hat, all over her ears, all over her ears, yep, the one that she got for ten bucks in Toronto, at the opening of the new loblaws in maple gardens. Joe fresh had an opening day sale, so that is why she owns this hat, the one that makes her look extra old, a young kid in a beard gave his seat to her, on the train, yep, it's official, we are so very so very so very so very old. Maybe that is good, for a writer, if you are old you have wisdom, even if you have none, thus you are at a stage in your life when you could and should write books, when you have to share your accumulated wisdom, the one that you acquired just by breathing for a certain 139

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amount of moments, on this planet, on this planet. While this big ball was hurling thru space, I was here, doing nothing but breathing, but breathing. Author ponders, her cold is getting worse by the second, she might just stop breathing, if she's not careful, careful. She has to stay out, in warmish places like this, she has to stay away from her own icy slash chilly place, she should stay at the airport for the nite, an airport is always warm and it always has people sleeping, all the people from heathrow, australia, from new zealand. An airport, that is where the world should sleep, live, from airport to airport to airport. As the ayatollah said, boy, is author old. One day she will write about current affairs, from seeing the world and its political, well, movements, well, stuff, at this point she is staying away from politics, mainly, because she doesn't understand it, understand it. Then again who does, rick santorum? Ha and ha and ha and ha. And we type here type here, outside, a budget sign, a woman near the printer with the correct body-mass-index – and we type here type here type here type here. 51 126, reluctantly reluctantly reluctantly. ----------------------------------------sitting in the oakridge library, on march 21. the sign on the wall near the clock that says 3:00. yep, the sign that is basically a big 21. march 21. author here feels tired, her cold is doing her in, but, hey, she managed to roll outta bed, go and attend the animation show in the art school, which was just superb, nothing but sitting in a darkened room and watch films, see, that is why art school is good, you feel like you are living in a big movie theater. Yep, after art school, there is the expectation that you make some films, but author here prefers to author, that is so much easier so much easier. You get instant gratification, your wordcount marches forward, by 2000 words each day, give or take some, you can brag to people and say, well, I pen 2000 words, each and every day, each and every day. Well, are you published? Hmm, no, but what do you do? Cut people up, now there is a great job, a great job. Author ponders, is she getting her ideas across, probably not, 140

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she is not that concise, prefers to linger on and listen to her own drummer, she prefers sentences that stop midair, you know what with being poetic and all that, she types anyways, types and types and types and types. Her cold is so there, her eyes are watery, slightly so, she should go home and hibernate under blankets, while oohing and aahing, while feeling as if death is so imminent, so imminent. Author here tries to avoid any social contact, she is just fine if she can make it out of bed, if she can walk, she feels more like collapsing, collapsing. She ponders if she should take off her outer layer, but it will be difficult to put on, yes, she will catch a cold once she goes out of this library, but, hey, that ship has already sailed, already sailed. If you have a cold already, you just have to make it thru the seven days that old wives predict, author ponders, she is an old wife, ha and ha, this writing slash typing biz does not go well today, today. A man burps disgustingly, like an old man, author looks up, he is actually a perfect hipster in green and grey, weird, bizarre, strange. And let us type here type here type here type here. To the end of the page, march forward, march forward. The words klimper onto the keyboard, it is snowing outside, that is nice, the first day of spring in vancouver, feels more like the first day of winter. And we type and type, nothing more to say, nothing, nada, zilch zip. Spellcheck, why not and why not and why not? Not and not and not- not, ah stop this already, stop it stop it. ------------------well, at least this computer here works, the one to her right is kind of weird, then again this one has an ink stain on the alt key, a pretty substantial one. The art school library, so desolate desolate. Nobody uses this place, why not why not. Is author here the only one who thinks she has what it takes to be a great writer, seems so, apparently, apparently. Someone coughs, way in the distance. Something rumples and rustles to the right, to the right,. Has nothing to do with the beyonce songanyhoo, we type here type here, a woman’s voice, author ponders, she has a cold, but she tries to 141

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stay away from her icy place, the one with the ah so broken heater. Author just tries to stay away and any place will do, should do. She sat in the caf in langara, there was another woman sleeping too, it is a college, it is full of people keeling over and sleeping, ah, sleeping. Author coughs, she has to have her vitamin c pill, not that it really will do something, anything. By Wednesday next week author here should be fine, the cold has to go thru its stages, move thru its stages, yep, motion thru the stages, so it seems seems. And we’re typing ah typing. 51772, a book a book a book. She just writes in feverish delirium, ah, this better be good better be good better be good. Waste your time typing waste your time writing. Yep, once again, this better be good better be good. ------------------------------------------------------Yeah yeah march 22. Wow is it raining on this city, there was hail before, and this is what they call spring. April showers way too soon, may flowers far in the distance. Might as well write write. The library in the art school is brimming, author is not quite sure if she can really sit here, what if someone shoos her away. Then again, she should just purchase a community card, you can do that do that. A man sits next to author, in a black suit. Nope, it is actually just a parka, he’s not one of those hipster hipsters. And we type here type here type here type here. Her cold is kinda good, she overslept, slept and slept, she is the kind of person who hates medicine, she tries to tackle all diseases with either “walk it off” or “sleep it off”. No reason to pay for college tuitions of big pharma types’ offspring. Author ponders, she watched “scrubs” in the night, you know, you might sometimes need doctors. And we type here type here type here type here. Ideas half-full, halfempty, the art school, the art school, the art school. Just keep on typing, the words might just fall into place and if they do not, then it is just merely artistic, artistic. There is a VOLUME magazine, an ARTS magazine, on the beautiful display, in front to the right, author ponders, should she stop 142

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coughing and go for a chamomile tea, a peppermint tea. Should she put the tea in front of her and start staring vacuously into space, like manet’s woman with absinthe, might have been another painter, monet, who knows, who knows who knows. She could look it up, right here on this very machine, she could could could. Author, yeah, feels slightly sick, sick and sick and sick and sick. And she will feel like this until next Thursday, old wives predictions can’t be wrong, can’t be wrong. There are no old husbands tales, now are there are there? And let us type here type here type here type here. These days author does not exercise, somehow, it is not good for people with colds, it tends to stuff you up more stuff you up more. She is hungry, she just had a banna loaf slice for breakfast, and it is way past breakfast breakfast. Then again the banana loaf breakfast was at twelve or something, authors tend to sleep in, especially authors that are all stuffed up, sick and sick and sick. Author likes this library here, it is pretty warm here, reasonably, reasonably. Her house is made outta ice, the chilliness is, well, bone-chilling. She lost her shawl with the tropical print thereon, this cannot be good, cannot be good. She ponders, is writing about unimportant stuff really good, good, good enough for throwing her up into the pantheon of great 21st century writers, now, is it, is it? You just keep on fiddling away, eventually, eventually, there will be some kind of fame and fortune, some kind and some kind and some kind. If that is what you want, what you want. Where there is a will, there is a way. Ah, platitudes rule, forever, forever. The keyboard here is really stupid, the A, the S, the D and two or three other letters, they are not even there anymore, anymore. An overused keyboard, that is what is holding her back, holding her back. There will be a reading in the wired monk, there always is, always is. open mic, open mic. She might as well go there go there. And we type here type here type here type here type here. Person next to author makes funny noises, ah, all of these people make that, make that. And we type and type and type and type. Literary arts in a visual arts institution, ah, this better be good better be good. And stop,

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and spellcheck spellcheck. Don’t cough into your hand, don’t don’t. 52 442, fifty two four four two- fifty two four four two. And the painting WOMAN WITH ABSINTHE was painted by edgar degas, oh well oh well oh well. -------------------------------------------------Author here seems to have way too much time on her hands, she watches various episodes of “texting while walking”, all kinds of films depicting people texting and falling down stairs, falling into fountains, falling into trash cans, some are definitely staged, others are not, anyways, this is what author here does between writing stints, and then there is the ubiquitous checking of the weather, the weather that is so very very very warm in every place but chilly-ish Vancouver, even Tabriz is catching up to Vancouver, new york city, though, wow, Oaxaca, double-wow, here, though, it is icy, icy, icy, icy. Even here in the library, you’ve gotta move if you want to be warm, gotta jump up and down, the like the like the like the like. Instead of typing away, typing away. And coughing away, coughing away. Author ponders, she will do what Kramer did, he put clothes into a pizza oven so that he would get warm, warm. It is now next to three in the afternoon, author is slightly tired of typing this up, typing this up. There should be more fun things to do than being a writer, a writer. Besides, it is way too glitchy, you never really know when the muse kisses you and, hey, wtf is a muse anyways? Google it, yep, google it, and we type some and type some and type some and type some. 52 746, oh well oh well oh well. -------------------------it is 5:42, in the downtown library, it is pretty warm in here, start typing, ah, typing. Fast and fast, she could race to the 60 000 line, she could she should. Her writing speed is pretty slow, her typing speed also, the only thing that keeps her going here is stamina. Not amazingish plot, not 144

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amazingish writing chops, nah, none of those, none and none and none. Just stamina, staying power, that is all we need here, need here. Tourist in blue and yellow striped sweater leaves, author just types and types and types. It is not that chilly in here, it is actually pretty toasty, no wonder everyone flocks to this place, where you can warm up, warm up. You don't even need a hot cocoa, you just need to sit here and type type. That is what cities are there for, to provide shelter from the cold, that is why we have malls and hotels and trains and buses, to use the central heating, the central heatings. Her place is way too chilly, it is so much icier than the outside. It feels like a lonely place on the prairies, where windstorms colden it up, where steppenwolfs roam. Anyhoo, let us type and type, against the cold, against the chilliness, against this that and the other. There is an extra big sign saying ESL, apparently it has to be extra big. There are stacks full of Engish Drama, there is one whole stack that says shakespeare. Hmm. That guy did pretty good, then again there are at least four stacks full of English Fiction. Years from now, author will walk by them, find her name in the right place, yep, why not why not why not, someone sits next to author, he is stinky. The tourist was none-stinky, this one has the nerve to be stinky. There should be someone at the door of the library who checks the smells and the odors of people. How can I write, how can I type, when I am half dead here, when the whiffs are killing moi, killing me. And we type here type here type here, now that person is talking to himself. What an outrage what an outrage. Anyhoo, we type here type here. We need the city to write, after all, just watching big bang does not provide enough inspiration, inspiration. If push comes to shove, the computer stations in langara seem to be the best stations in town, you have your own private place, enough distance from your neighbour, but you can still be people watching, people watching. And we type here type here type here type here. Author ponders if she has a temperature, she feels like it, it feels like it and we type and type

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and type some more. Some 53 289 we have, we have. And save and spellcheck, the like the like the like the like. -----------------------------March 26- on the telly, some irish comedian, this is how author’s work week starts up, sitting in a room with curtains closed, typing up her words, she still can feel her cold, she was so very sick, but it feels good to be back again, after being so full of fever ands sniffles, it is a new morning, a new day. A new dawn., endless possibilities. As long as we have our health, as long as we have our health. The walk thru the fresh morning air, the not quite there drizzle, eager schoolchildren in not high enough huggz, yeah, yeah, let us write here write here. Maybe we will make it to 55000, wouldn’t that be nice, nice, nice, nice? -----------------------------And now, somewhere between the bold and the beautiful, somewhere next to the young and the so very restless, words are typed and typed and typed. Might as well be lunchtime, would be nice to have a yoghurt curry sauce on rice, the one they sell in metrotown in the foodcourt next to the bay. Somehow that seems too far a drive, there are other ways to have lunch, anyways, we might as well type here first type here first. 53 450 words, 53 450 words. To type up a big chunk of words, against the reno-show on the telly, so funny, fixing up a house as entertainment, anyhoo, let us type let us type let us type let us type. Might be better to go down to the library, the walk there will generate stuff to write about, might not be that good to just sit in here, cooped up, with the curtains drawn, this is not how literature is fashioned, nope and nope and nope. Author is still pretty knocked out by her cold, the fever is over, but she has to get back into the flow of things, the cold knocked her out, pretty bad, pretty bad. She get’s better by just typing 146

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away, typing away. Ah, the gymnastics of typing, typing. The shoulder that falls into place, hurting in the same places it always does, the right forearm, cramping up, cramping up. Author tries to look at the show on the telly, it kind of seems weird to fix up a whole house in five weeks, but, hey it is television, television. Author went to the little gallery in Chinatown on Saturday, they had this great panel discussion about architecture, they had great cookies slash cake pieces, at least they looked amazing, they were freshly purchased right there in Chinatown, author did not try them but everybody was ooing and aahing over them, the gallery was so nice and the talks were really amazingly interesting, but then author had to leave, her cold got the worst of her, she did not want to crack up the whole place with her hacking coughs, so she had to leave, leave. She ponders, she went to metrotown, too, she now remembers, she went there, parked her car there and took the skytrain to Chinatown, so what did she do on Sunday, ah, she went to the casino, the airport, you can go there all by train and it does not cost extra on weekends. You just take in the sights and sounds, digest them and spit them out onto you keyboard, and voila, you have a book. One day, someday, you might as well, have a plot, a plot, a plot. And we type here type here, the telly showed this undercover boss show and it was all about this fitness center chain, makes you want to venture out and keep on moving and lose some weight, get fit, the like the like the like. Author has watched way too much W, which is the Women’s network, this might not really be what you should do when you want to type a book, anyhoo, we need some more words here, some more words and some more words. 53 909, just 1100 words more, just and just and just. Ah, to type this up, to type this up. Author ponders, she still has 2009’s nanowrimo in longhand, it still has to be typed up, she still has another travelogue to be typed up, this will sure keep her busy, sure and sure and sure and sure. Ah, would ben ice to have a cubicle, everything but to do your work in isolation,

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without the nine to five routine, anyhoo, type some more and type some more and type some more. And 54 002 it is it is. ------------------march 28- once more back in the central library, she definitely has to get on this, she was kinda knocked out, way too sick, now should be the time to make up for lost time. Do not look to your right, do not look to your left, just prance forward, like a race horse like a race horse. No distractions, just the eye on the ball, forward, forward forward. She has the too oldish jacket on, the one she is living in,. The one that is so warm and cozy, in the morning there was a woman with an equally overworn jacket in the coffeeshop on arbutus, hers was kline-blue, midnight blue, it looked equally warm and worn, there is the problem with these so warm jackets, you have to wear them to the bitter end, unil birds nest in them, you cannot wash them, you just have to throw them out, but they are warm and cozy cozy, like a teacozy for your favorite chamomile tea- anyhoo, author here is still so very weak, her cold is still so lingeringy, she chaghs with horsy coughs, and it dose not help that the person at the other computer is talking to himself, scary, ah, scary. Stop mumbling, you moron. . He has a red sweater, a grey professorial beard, looks like santa clause. And mumbles, well, every now and then. He is deranged, not in a mental way, but more in a mental upperclass retiree, know-it all-way. And we type and type and type and type here. The ESL crowd is busy, near the, well, ESL-station, author here types and types and types and types. An ugly woman is the ESL teach, what, did not make it in academia, so you've gotta teach your own language? And we type here type here type here. Against the cold, the stuffy nose, stop mumbling mumbling. Woman with bruise on forehead sits down, why is everybody here so ugly? Author really prefers the college libraries, everyone is proper and neat, in the public libraries there is the woman in pink whose clothes are too tight, the man who rumples his face with this hand, yep, the 148

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public library is like the DMV, everybody is undatable, undatable. Author pushed the wrong button, she lost part of her writing. It dissipated, dissipated. Her remark about Seinfeld connotations, lingering, hovering, somewhere in mid-air, midair. Her mentioning of wordcount, ah, lost, 4ever, forever. Her words that are not, that will not. Literature, world lit, lost forever, forever. Gotta make up other words, newer words, lost masterpieces, ah, lost master pieces. She types types Yeah, writes, yeah,, but those very words she typed up minutes ago, those words that motioned all of her words into place, they are trotting along somewhere, leaderless, so lost so lost. And to think there is no plot, to boot, to boot. No who dunnit, none none. - anyhoo, we just type here type here type here. Lingeringy fast, lingeringy, lingeringy. And 54 567 it is it is it is. ----------------------------march 29- back in the art school, there will be a talk at seven, a really nice one, a good one, the dean of DESIGNER AS SOCIAL ENTREPRENEUR in parsons, should be good, should be good. Now, the question here is, should we make our way back home, change, put on something warmer, fluffier, something that will cozy one up against the arguably pretty mild spring weather of Vancouver, or, should we just sit here and write and type, ongoing hammering away at the tastatur, hunched over, while looking at the smoke in front of the ocean factory, in the distance, while listening to the typing of the person to the right, to the shoveling of too hard , too harsh heels, while looking at the two tri-pots on the ground, one red, one black- yep, we can go either way here either way here. There are 54 665 words here, we could go up to 57000, in one sitting one sitting one sitting. ah, stop, ah, spellcheck spellcheck. ------------------------------------------------------------

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So, what are you up to these days, oh, I am writing, ahem, but it does not go anywhere, one of these discussions, one of these talks, she had them for the last four years, ever since she started doing this so very seriously, seriously, meaning, typing, typing, basically day-in day-out day-in day-out. Yep, you just need staying power nothing else nothing else. You need the laziness of someone who just does the same drill, the same drill, each and every day each and every day. If she was employed somewhere, there would be good days and bad days, in the old days, courts had their court jesters, they got paid, whether they were jesting god or bad, author ponders, who is her court. Society, a society that needs creatives, to be on their payroll and it should be mere minions, not too loud, not out to start a revolution, not there to rock the boat, just there to live silently, sing silently, complain a tad, but not too much, not too much. It is pretty warm in here, she might just stay put, why make your way thru the cold to the downtown library, her cough is not that good, we don’t want this to morph into something more serious, we can do without pneumonia, pneumonia. This place is warm enough enough, author ponders, yep, wonders, why is there a dirty white towel lying here next to the keyboard, with a black touque on top of it, take it away, take it away. Author does not know to whom it belongs, thus, she is just typing away, typing away. Her tea is kinda getting cold here, the too large peppermint tea, author ponders, the baristas are not really into preserving the environment, you can take a larger cup, it is all the same price, yep, duh, but it uses up more paper, a bigger papercup. Author is of course slightly hypocritical, but who cares and cares and cares and cares. Just keep on typing typing, this is what you will do until you are 90, until you are 100, you can type until the rest of your life, thus you will fly to Stockholm in 2050, but, hey, at that time we will all have a little rocket on our back, yeah, yeah, fly like that fly like that. Shows of what age she is that used to be the thought in the sixties, that you can do that in an instant- moving to the other side of the world, well, in a way it is true because we can talk to

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someone via satellite you can send a text to shanghai, you can communicate in instances instances. Even if you do not go there in person, physically, physically. This towel here is really annoying and disgusting- anyhoo, we type here type here type here type here. 55159 words, 55, 55. Take your stinking towel with you, do it do it do it do it. Finally, what a disgusting little moron hipster. Yuck and yuck and yuck and yuck and yuck. Fifty-five two hundred, fifty-five two hundred, fifty-five two hundred. -----------------------------------March 30- in the library at the University of British Columbia, behind her an exhibit of posters for a conference about life threatening diseases- or so it seems, neurological disorders, fruit flies, the whole gamut of what epidemics lurk somewhere somewhere. She has to go back home to call up the travel agent who did not send the itinerary as of yet, as of yet. But, hey, first gotta type all of this up, first gotta type gotta type. Her masterpiece here cannot wait, cannot, cannot, cannot, cannot. She does not like her writing, she should write really really scholastic stuffi-muffi, instead of slithering into this semi-poetic waxing, she has to be a staunch beacon of logic reason rationale, the like the like, after all she has to wear her combat boots and combat biases against female incompetencies and/or competencies for that matter, but is that really who she is as a writer, a token for anything, anything. Is it not more fun to roll outta bed and see where the mood takes yer, though, obviously, it makes for less focused writing writing, how can you fashion a masterpiece without a blueprint, would be like living in a building that was constructed without a blueprint, the foundation would be way too weak, way too weak. Author ponders, her insights this mor’n are so very concise, so very, well, insightful, insightful insights that chirp in the dawn, geez, we are so full of bullshit, ah, today and today and today. That is what happens when you walk thru the too

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stark morning, when you let yourself whisk away by the wrong bus, so these are the words that splash down in spring, on march 30st, in 2012, 2012. Author ponders if she should give the correct date, it is like in the caption of a painting, should you really give the correct date, there are pros and cons and artists think about that, one date will increase the market value, another one will decrease it, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here. The security guard throws a banana peel into the recyclables, author still types still types still types here. 55 570, she should run for 57 000 at the very least at the very very very very very least. 55 590, for some strange and bizarre reason the wordcount differs, once you have done the spellcheck, words sail into the text, like magic, like magic. This place is kinda weird, all the students are printing their essays out, the papers due the papers due. And we type here type here, slightly contorted, this chair is so weird, weird, woman next to author is eating a big glob of cheese, and she is rail thin, rail thin. Author ponders, is it really cheese, she should go near to her, analyze it, yep, it seems to be cheese, cheese. How can you eat that big a piece of cheese and be rail thin, maybe that is her weight secret, must be, must be, must be. And we type here and type here and type here. The rumpling of the printer, author is now standing, seems more comfy this way more comfy more comfy more comfy. There is a big long line-up in front of the printers, if there are so many writers, how come not everyone is a writer, an author? And we type a tad, type a tad, the smell of the cheese is much more pungent now, it must be the saran wrap that is sending its whiffs into the air, anyhoo, we type here type here type here type here type here. Now the woman eats a brownie, the cheese eating woman, she eats it with a spoon, author watches her eat, then types in her observations, this cannot be that good, the woman might just snap at her, after all, she is not some kind of research subject here, now is she is she. If that was a fruit fly you could observe her very easily but if you are observing a real life specimen in the field, that is kind off 152

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dangerous, dangerous. And we type here type here, woman with red hair, takes off her coat, her hair is dyed and cut trendily, it is near nine, near nine. Author is awake since five or since six or since seven, she is disoriented, a disoriented writer, a disoriented typer. Her back hurts slightly, ah, slightly. Woman sneezes, twice and twice and twice. And printer starts a-rumpling again, woman still eats her muffin slash brownie with a spoon, from this we decipher that the woman lives at home and that the muffin is a Costco muffin, bought in bulk, yay yay yay. Author is happy with her sociological findings, now how can we possibly weave this into marketable writing, writing. It is an anthropological piece now, is it, is it, is it? How do you spell anthropology, hmm, hmm, hmm? Oh, and we have 56 042 here, how did this happen, when did this happen? Author retitles this, yeah, yeah, new name and new name and new name: minutiae and travelogue, doesn’t this sound rad, rad? It does and it does and it does. Catapults author here right into the pantheon, makes her soar above mere grocery-list-penning poets. Yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah. Besides, the grocery-list-penning poet-set does not use this many repetitions, now, do they, do they? And we type some, type some. Author sneezed, twice, the cheese-eating woman said bless you, what a lovely lady, a poet no less, judging from her monitor, nevermind the cheese-wadeating, she has lovely shoes that hobble on the chair, anyhoo, writer slash author is losing it here slightly, ever so slightly. We have 56 176, which is pretty good, pretty good. Two months worth of writing and we have next to 60 000 words, now we only need a reader or many many many many readers for that matter. How do you construct readers? You can imprison people and order them to read, that is what happens to students, author ponders, she could elaborate, but, she does not really feel like that feel like that. She’d rather jump from idea to idea, that seems to be the new thing, she just listened to two talks which were similarly disorganized, seems to be the new new thing, fragmented, so very very very very fragmented thought. This is what happens in the times of

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textmessages and twitter, all ideas are so very very very fragmented. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. This is her third nanowrimo work, well, kind of, kind of. Let us type and type and type, in the night she should go to this pub here in the student union building, that is what writers do, they do, they do, they do. There is an MFA program at this school, a pretty good one, author remembers a reading by this woman in a red dress, very good, very very articulate, thus, we might as well hover around in this place, our writing can only improve only improve. It cannot really become much worse, that is how it seems seems. And stop and spellcheck spellcheck spellcheck. A tad and a tad and a tad, a tad. --------------------------------------------Only 600 or so words, that would be enough for today, now, wouldn’t it, wouldn’t it? we should never overdo it here, the muse is so very fickle, easy does it easy easy easy. Author ponders if she should submit her stuff for the exhibit in October, the one in nyc? All her stuff is due in mid-april, she has to line all her ducks up, in time and in time and in time and in time. She has to take some time out from her writings, she has to focus on her drawings or at least rummage around for her old drawings drawings. And we type here type here type here type here. ----------------------------------------------------------------Only 500 more words, only, only. The sounds from the caf, the yellow sticker that says BARBER103. The way too pungent smell from the woman to the right, the smell that is overthrowingly, overthrowingly. And we type some type some, author ponders, she could take the bus from here and make her way to the ravel agency on main and talk to the travel agent, she misplaced his phone number, so she just has to venture there venture there. Or she could look the number up, that is how things are done these days, these days. Would be kinda tough, she does not have her cell with 154

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her, anyhoo, we type and type and type and type, she should write about more important issues, not about the banal in her life, there has to be murders, mysteries and martinis that are stirred not whisked or something like that something like that. Something that starts a movie franchise, somethinganything. And we type here type here type here type here. To reach Stockholm eventually eventually eventually. ------------------------------------------------------------Only 300 words, pretty good, pretty great. This place is well, it is something. Author could mention to caption ERGOTRON, the one on the computer stand, she could describe the orange thingie in all the black cables, she could describe the hoarse cough by the woman in the camel jacket with the puffy appliques. Or the caption STRELSON-SWISS CROSS on the parka of the person to the right. It is near ten, seems, a lot of classes just let out, there is much more commotion here now, maybe, recess or something, something. Woman next to author smells, perfumy, what is it with studenst at at this institution, they are way too perfumy, way too perfumy. Or, maybe, it is because of finals, no one dares to take a bath, thus the use of perfumes goes up exponentially, disproportionally. Seems like that seems like that seems like that. Once more, a long line-up at the printers, now did you guys not have ample enough time for writing your papers, seems not everyone lives for writing papers, papers. Not everyone wants to be an author, not and not and not and not. And we type here type here type here type here. Slight utter bullshit, but only 80 words will do should do. Two to ten, author pecks at the keyboard, this keyboard is pretty nice, most of the letters are intact, intact. An underused keyboard, yay and yay. 40 more words, 40, 40, 40. Run and run and run and run and run. It is icy here, icy here icy here. The red fire alarm in the distance, the yellow ,lights on the grey wall, two, two. The funny sound from the left, some machine that brums and we are there there. 57008, time to have chamomile tea, chamomile tea chamomile tea. 155

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The writer the writer the writer the writer the writer the writer. The writer and chamomile tea, shaken not stirred shaken not stirred shaken not stirred. 57 044, 57 044- fifty seven oh four four. --------in some kind of fast whirlwind, sitting in the downtown library, on the third floor, with views of the street, with views of the THE CENTRE logo on the building nearby, somehow, somewhere, the machine is a-waiting for some more words, ah, some more words. The author's head is swimming, she did too much, way way too much. And she surfed too much on the web, thus, the swimming head, the swimming head. Lightheadedness, the wish for barfing, the reluctant toothache in the lower teeth, somewhere in the back, maybe there are more precise, preciser ways to describe this. A woman with food in her hand, cars driving by, the person next to her waiving his hat around. In the back people are practicing a language with a lotta tsees in it, a woman with a red papermug and a red shawl, two dark silhouettes on the pavement pavement. Author here types, there are better writers than her, worse writers than her, that is how it is how it is. She read some really good texts online, some really bad ones too, her writing is somewhere in the middle, not too good and way too sugary not too barf-inducing, just slithering away near the abyss of horrible words that is how it is how it is. And 57 338 we have, nice, time to have a tea, yay yay- why not and why not and why not. Her language is way too poignant, not poignant enough, ah who cares and cares and cares. Buses outside, the poster for some show called monkey king, another one that says HOME OF THE ACTION MUSICAL, both posters are pretty colourful, someone blows his nose, way too loud way too loud. Stop that stop that, you disgustingish moron, her toothache might just do her in, woman dances by, fast and fast and fast and fast. 57 430, 57 431. and we type and type and type, feel like barfing, like smashing the keyboard on the person at the other station, the one with the dreadlocks and the greenish hoodie, ah, I guess, violence is overrated, overrated. That is why we 156

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become writers, to be polite, nice, functional, the like and the like and the like AND the LIKE. AUTHOR FEELS LIKE DISINTEGRATING, RIGHT NOW AND RIGHT NOW AND RIGHT NOW. now. -------------------------march 31- sitting in front of the telly, she ponders if she could make it to 60 000 by the end of the day, should be nice to start april with 60 000 words under your belt. She sits hunched over, typing and typing and typing and typing and typing. THE OFFICE on tv, the one where they start the Michael scott paper company, an offshoot of dunder mifflin maybe, it is pretty funny, it is in the middle of the day, author here is sitting in a darkened room, while the telly is playing, she is typing up her masterpieces, one of many one of so many many. There is not much to describe here, just all the people on the show talking to the camera, this is not so very conducive to writing, ah, writing. Author went to this exhibition slash show thingy called all under one roof, it was kind of boring after a while, but the muffin was kinda good. Kinda good. So were the little models and maquettes, they were really good, really good. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. Author had way too much food, sushi with avocado and a big mac and a banana loaf, she should really lose weight for summer, she should do her drawings for the exhibition in nyc, she should do her writing, her writing, her writing. On the show, ryan and Michael and pam are sitting in their new office, which is basically a storage room under dunder Mifflin and they can hear everyone who uses the bathroom in the office upstairs. And we type here and type here and type here. 57 725, she should run for 60 thou, sixty, sixty. Her story, her novel, the one that does not have a plot, but, hey, plots are so yesterday, so yesterday. The amassment of words that is all that counts here, all that counts here all that counts here all that counts here. Repetitions too, repetitions too, yep, repetitions, too. 57 792, 57 797. 157

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Just a little square in the corner of the room, yelling at her, yelling at her, this has to substitute for human interaction, author ponders, will her writing suffer or will it flourish. Now it is Seinfeld, the one where they got stuck at a party on long island, Seinfeld and Elaine are waiting for Kramer, anyhoo, it is funny, it is repetitive- and we type here type here type here type here type here. The wordcount crawls forward, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. 57 880, typing typing, she has to somehow make it to 60 000, somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow. 102 words to the whole thousand, word after word after word after word. 90 words, slowly, steadily. She should take the laptop down to the coffeeshop on arbutus, start typing there , start typing there. 70 words, 70, 70. Against the laughtracks, against, against. 60 words, 60, just 60. 50, yay, this is marching forward, quite nicely, quite nicely. Writing as race writing as race. But, hey, she discussed that before, discussed that before. Only 30, only, only. Ah, the tedium of writing, might as well watch Seinfeld when typing, you know, for entertainment, entertainment. Yep, for entertainment, writing get’s boring, makes yer hungry. Wants you to motion around, move about. And we have 58011 here, who said you can’t do this do this. She might go and see mirror mirror, in the movie theater near the bowling alley. And type and type and type some more, some more, some more, some more -----------A movie on the telly, john Cusack and Kevin kline, author is not quite sure if those are the names of the actors, but could be could be. They both talk with a lot of pomp, as if everything they say has a lot of meaning, that is not how people usually converse, but, hey, that is what we have Hollywood for. Somebody has died, somebody has been shot. Police, police photographers, a lot of 158

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east texas drool. Or whatever drool that might be. A lot of white people and black people serving them. And there is an election, and the main players are all male. Male and white. It is a boring film, not even good looking people. And no laughtracks to boot, ah, to boot. Author needs 1800 words, if she wants to make it to sixty thousand sixty thousand. She types, she types. Fast and fast and fast and fast. The main character is a writer, at least that is how he refers to himself. A writer, he has dark glasses now, there is weird background music, something jazzy, Dixie, big band, author here kind of smushes the terms together. It is about a funeral now, a woman in red with a hat and flowers, a red car, a dark red car. The dress of the woman is more ruby red. And we type and type and type and type here. 58 284, ah, write, ah, write, ah, write. It is next to six in the afternoon, she has written a lot for the last two months, jack Kerouac wrote ON THE ROAD in three weeks, author here still needs a lot more words, a lot more words, yay, a lot more a whole lotta more. Typing, writing, this is not good for your shoulder, the pangs on the right side, ah, typing, ah, typing, typing. some spellcheck some spellcheck, some save button save button. She is outta subject matter outta subject matter outta subject matter. Writing is so utterly boring, it is not what she was born to do, now, is it is it. She misuses the words, omits commas, today is one of those days when writing does not come easy, not at all not at all. She should have done something else with her day, should have done interesting stuff, she went to this exhibition, that is what author does, she goes to a lot of artsy events because she thinks that that will automatically lead to good writing. You don’t really know what will make you write well, is it reading, is it listening to music, is it walking You just have to stay pretty active, after all, writing, typing is a pretty stagnant job, you have to somehow suck up life and then barf it onto the keyboard, pardon my French, pardon, pardon. And we type here type here type here. 58 527, 29. --------------------159

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On the telly, this baking show which is called CAKE WALK. Three groups of designers make a wedding cake, one team will win, for some reason the bakers are not called bakers, but designers. Kind of weird, what is wrong with baker? Anyhoo, now there is an IKEA ad, now it is an ad for a shampoo that will not destroy the dye in your hair. And now an ad for some air freshener, and now an ad for a car. There are a lot of ads for air fresheners, and now a mc donald’s ad. Back to CAKE WALK, we have 58 638 words. Now it is the tasting part, the teams give their taste samples to the judges. Author feels hungry, she needs sugar and grease. They love the distribution of cake and cream, and the judge does not taste maple. And this one judge says that it is not appealing to his palette, whatever that means, whatever that means. Anyhoo, we might as well type away type away. 1300 more words, fast and fast and fast and fast. Now there is a discussion whether it is ok to mix the flavors of orange with carrot and pineapple and coconut. This one woman with a blue shawl wins the taste test, it is actually not a blue shawl, it is just a babyblue collar on her white chef uniform. This all has to be described in detail, in order to fill the page, fill the page. And you thought we might have writers block here, nope, there is always something to say, always, always, always. Now, one more of those California ads, they are really good, you should watch them. Even Arnold Schwarzenegger and maria shriver were on them, well, in the good ol’ times, and we type here type here type here type here. 58 846, ah well ah well ah well. ----------------------------------1200 words, something like that, and we will be at 60 000. It is the end of the CAKE WALK competition, the cakes are moved to the judging table. And yay, somebody wins, somebody wins. Now it is TWO AND A HALF MEN, we need 1100 words and that should do it, do it. Typing while listening to laughtracks, that is how worldlit is fashioned these days, yay and yay and yay. Now an ad, a very annoying one. The flimmering and the drumbeats- makes you barf, barf. Papa 160

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john’s pizza, a car. And once more, two and a half men. 1050 words, that is all we need here, need here. Author ponders, she could open another window and make a movie or a show play on the computer, the total noise pollution, the voice confusion, that should just ramp up the wordcount, yay and yay and yay. She ponders, she uses way too much slang here, she has to go back in here and heavily edit this. 1000 words, 1000, 1000. ---------------------------------The two plants near the window, the brown paper basket with the white filigree border, the show on the telly. For some reason, the little icon on the monitor flashes, maybe it always does. 59060, ah, words and words and words and words. Now an ad for a store named RALPH’S, now an ad for a JEEP, now an ad for an ACCORD. And an ad for some breakfast, some fast food breakfast. And still, another car ad, for DAS AUTO. And once more an ad for a grocery store called RALPH’S. and once more, two and a half men. 900 words, 900, 900, 900. Ah, to type and type, while vulgar jokes are dispensed on the idiot box, we still need 650 words here, fast and fast and fast. ----------The laughtracks are kind of weird and bizarre, they definitely interfere with the typing. but we definitely need some more words here, to finish this up, to finish this up. Nobody cares about a plot, the only thing that matters is the wordcount. 59 200, thus, only 800, only 800. Some more words some more words. Ah, to stare at the monitor, trying to fish for the next word, the one that never comes and if it comes is way too off-course. She should go back to animating, at least she was pretty good at that. Or painting, or drawing. Words are far too fickle, they run away, they are never accurate enough, never eloquent enough. An ad for some kind of sandwich, an ad for a car. There are so many many car ads on, seems to be primetime for potential car purchasers. Today, 161

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there will be earth hour, anyhoo, let us type and type and type and type and type. 700 words, 700, 700, 700. An ad for a car, an ad for a salad dressing. An ad for a restaurant chain called NORM’S, an ad for a car. Seems that this station based in los angeles has a disproportionate amount of car ads and fast food ads. We still need 600 more words, fast and fast, so very very fast. And yay, an ad for a car, a truck. An ad for wells fargo, ah, type and type and type. And still another car ad, see, the bank will help you buy the car. And another fast food ad. -----------------------------------------600 words, 600, 600, 600. And now alan and Charlie, laugh tracks, cheap jokes that are all pretty vulgar. We need 500 words, fast and fast and fast. ------------------Apparently, this show does not provide any fodder for her writing, she goes thru the motions mechanically, she knows she has to type in a certain amount of words, her back hurts, this is not how poets should work, should work. They should be inspired or something, kissed by the muse, some bizarre weird thing like that. The words are not the right ones, the syntax is off, but, hey, the wordcount marches forward, forward. The show on the idiot box is just idiotic, her neck hurts, writing is not for her, not for her. 400 words 400 400. -----------------------It is a pretty funny story about a woman who sings really really bad, author is not really following the story, the laughtracks kind of underscore the melody of the story. Another fast food ad, and yay, there is an ad for a car. Apparently people in LA either eat or drive. Or watch TV to be told where

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to eat and what to drive. Yep, still another car ad. See, what you can decipher about the world just by watching tv. -----------------------------Charlie at the psychiatrist, laughtracks, we still need 300 or so words, 300, 300, 300, 300, 300. ----Actually, it is more like 350 words, she has to rush all of these words into the keyboard, now an ad for a news show. An ad for RALPH’S, whatever that is, a mc donald’s ad, I’m loving it. Yes, and once more an ad for a car. A lexus. To drive thru at mc. Donald’s. now an ad for Kaiser permanente. Well, if all you do is drive and eat, you need a good doctor. And there it is, a Nissan ad. A gocery store ad. We still need 300 words here, 300 300 300 300 Ah, to have 60 000. Two months worth of writing, 30 000 per month. This is what authors do, yay and yay and yay. All these car ads are kind of getting sickening. 220 words, 220, 220. Fast and fast and fast. A Toyota dealer, a Nissan dealer, bmw. Now, we have family guy, we only need 200 200 200. --------------------200 more words against the most dramatic part of good will hunting, the tearjerker part. Earth hour in vancouver is over and author here slightly cheated, it is way too cold in her place, she needs the heater on in at least one place. Anyhoo, we type fast, fast, only 140, to be at 60 000, 60000. Her words are slightly meaningless, they are too shallow, way too shallow, author’s main obsession is with amassing words, random so very random sentences. What you say should be grave, measured, it should have slight reluctant forceful impacts, apparently it should not be some sing sang, some 163

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scratching on the table, some filigree dances. Some feathery constructs, for moments, moments. Anyhoo, we are so near the endline, only some more steps, some more some more some more some more. 50, gimmee 50, only 50. Go into april knowing you penned 60 000 words in two months, go and buy yourself a twinky or some hard candy for that, be happy just with the knowledge that you could beat your own personal record, for moments for moments for moments. Yay, six more and we’re there we’re there. -----------------------------April 1- no, it is not a joke. Some april fool jokes, not quite, not quite. Author ventured out, pretty soon in the day, the coffee shop on arbutus was still closed, apparently it opens one hour later than usual on weekends, the one on 41st was open, the lady behind the counter was wearing heavy make-up, she is part of a cheer leading competition. Seems, every one having coffee was interrogating her, it was still early in the morning, the lady gave info very cheerfully, it was not the make-up, it were the false lashes full of glimmer, than maybe they were not even false. Author had her coffee, changed her place once, only to be heading home to start typing, typing. If she starts early in the morning, she might finish her daily allotment by noon, yep, she should be more diligent, more ambitious. In her case the ambition lies more in doing the job, not in improving the quality of the work, her writing is and has been, always, about quantity, ah, quantity. It is a description of the drudgery, the tedium, the repetitiveness of the process of writing, and by extension, of the tedium, the repetitiveness of reading. It is an attempt to demystify the process of writing and the process of reading, to cement their place in the realm of everyday occupations, like brushing your teeth, like combing your hair. Writing should come as natural as anything you do, author ponders, her line of thought is galloping into different directions, but that should be fine, should be fine. Her wordcount is at 60 271, she ponders if she wants to shoot for 2000 words or for 164

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2500, either way, she should just type away, type away. The tininess of this place, the quietness is stifling, the pangs of loneliness, this is not a studio, at least not a painter’s studio, it is more a writer’s workshop, author ponders if one uses the word STUDIO in conjunction with the profession of a writer, after all, it is more about the tools, the pen, the paper, the type-writer, and by extension about a table, a chair, it is not so much about the room, the encapsulment of space. Boy, she sure can bullshit a lot on this early Sunday morning, she had ideas when driving to the coffeeshop, she wanted to discuss them once she was back at her laptop, she totally forgot what she wanted to say, her thoughts were fragmented, disjointed, anyways, anyways. She always wants to apologize for not having a sure enough plot, a clear story, her writing meanders between fiction and non-fiction, that is how it is, how it is. But, hey, isn’t any kind of writing genre-encompassing at its core, teetering between prose and poetry, as a writer you have to use as many tools as there are in the toolbox, you can label any artistic endeavour as gimmicky, gimmicky. And besides, you can will your texts into becoming better, better. She has 500 words already, already. The difference between writing and say, animating is that you have a concise storyboard to follow when animating, you do not really have that when writing. And she types and types, sprinkles her writings with observations, for her there is the problem of keeping the reader engaged, in not losing a reader, if you make a film, you will not loose a viewer, they (the viewers) are all sitting in a darkened room, they cannot flee until the curtain rises. The same goes for music, if you keep people encapsulated in a room, they cannot leave, besides, they paid upfront, they will stay until the bitter end, because they committed their time, in advance, in advance. With a book, they might just as well close it and leave, author ponders, her logic has so many, many holes. Maybe, logic is not her thing, not her thing. She feels like going downtown, dressing up and doing brunch in the nicest and most expensive place in town, but, hey, first we have to type some and write some and

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type some. There is laundry a-waiting to be folded, but hey, who cares, who cares, the words here take precedence, gotta type and type and type. The incoherence of her words is mindboggling, if it wasn’t drizzly outside, she would go for a jog, if she was a jogger that is, would be nice to run near the water, and it would help if she would not jump from thought to thought to thought, from idea to idea. If you write, chose your theme, if you want to describe a three-layered cake, do that for 2000 words, do not jump suddenly to describing the consistency of a steak. There are so many do’s and don’ts for writing, author here has never really taken a writing course, and it shows, it shows. Well, actually, she has taken a creative writing course, it was kind of a funny course, she remembers the prof going on and on, way pass the time, it was an evening course and everybody wanted to leave, the prof did not notice that it was way past ten, in the end one person complained, most of them had to be at work or at school early the next morning, the prof would sleep in, it was a funny situation, anyhoo, we have 60 897, not bad, not that bad, not that bad. Just save this, spell-check this, for moments moments moments moments moments moments. 60 919, for now and now and now and now. -----------------------------------------------------Next to 61 thou, she feels still groggy, she is not quite sure from what, she is not a drinker, thus, she does not have hangovers, it is just pure simple malaise, it does not really help that the heater here is broken, that she has to hover in this one room where the heater works. Author ponders, her descriptions are not that clear, they are slightly inaccurate, but, hey, we are at 61 000, and that is all that counts here, counts here. Author ponders if she should take to the casino, the one in Richmond, it is pretty funny to go there early in the morning, you feel kind of sin-cityish, especially because the crowd there is certifiably geriatric, so that place has such a stench of thrown away lives, in a socially acceptable way though, it is weird and strange and bizarre. Ah, it is a 166

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madhouse, a madhouse, author is just happy that she amasses words, even if they are quietly discomforting, rapidly disjointed. Ah, let us type here, let us type here, if the words do not go together, you can always call it artistic, artistic. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. If this was a musical instrument, one could call it jamming, with a laptop, it is slightly different, slightly different. Author feels pangs of nausea, silent ones, reluctanty ones, dulled-down ones. Ah, keep on typing, try to describe something indescribable, for moments, for moments. Take stabs at poeting along, it is the same as if you were jogging along, in the morning drizzle, fast and stoic, the like the like the like the like. 61 202, author longs for a chamomile tea, to soothen the aches of her writerly incompetence. Her struggling with the words, against the words, the fight with the language that does not click, not today at that, not today, not today. She should go back to scripting plays, she did it once, it was pretty good for a first try, everything made sense, and there definitely is a market for plays. Yep, one could be a playwright, should be easier than being a novelist who pens lots of reluctant novels, non-novels. Novels have 100 000 words, because apparently that is how much it takes to fashion a solid story arc, there are all these rules, author could and should try her hand at short stories, to submit them, to make a name for herself. She should submit her drawings to this exhibition in nyc, she should do this that and the other. But, hey, at this time, only the word count counts, only, only, only, only, only. Only the amount of words, only the number of words. Not the number of letters, not the number of characters- anyhoo, we type here, type here type here type here type here, shortly before keeling over, shortly before passing out, shortly before disintegrating, disintegrating. Before insanity sets in, slightly, forcefully. Hmm. Seems, today we are a tad too dramatic, author ponders if she should have an egg mc muffin in the drive-thru, is that what artistic types do, do? Nope, that is what construction types do, tradeswomen, tradesmen, there are way more tradesmen then tradeswomen. If push comes to

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shove, there are no tradeswomen. Not in author’s neighbourhood, not in any neighborhood in north america, that is. Now, there is a theme to be explored, but, hey, don’t feel like that don’t feel like that here. She could listen to the news, like in that old beatles song, from sergeant pepper, author ponders, she does not quite recall the words. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, that is what is on the radio these days, I love you like a love song, whatever that means whatever that means. How can a lovesong love somebody? A song does not fall in love, a person falls in love. So, technically, Katie perry has it all wrong. Kelly Clarkson, on the other hand, makes total sense, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, everyone can relate to that universal truth, yay and yay and yay and yay. We only need 1000 more words, the day is very much breaking outside, the words, ah the words ah the words ah the words. Somehow her writing teethers near the nonsensical, it always does always does. Her writing her writing her writing. She will send this out, will start e-querying, e-querying. To kill the time, to feel like she is doing something that she is part of a writers’ community, whatever that is, whatever that is. Gone are the days when people would gather in the midnight of paris, author ponders how she can tie this in successfully with the theme of the latest woody allan film, she can’t, she can’t. All her connotations are hopping about clumsily here and words are not rabbits, they do not hop, they gallop. Everything here is strange and bizarre, the sentences are so very senseless. Would be more fun to throw paint at canvasses, would be more physical, more physical. Her writings are stifled, her words are dull and reluctant, how can you paint with words, you can only paint with paint, with paints. Words are too bland, they have to march in unison, they cannot, should not break the mold. Well, actually, they can, lots of writers circumvent traditional rules, if I can love you like a lovesong, everything is possible. Anyhoo, let us type here type here type here type here. Fast and furious, fast and furious. While

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humming to herself, the author hammers away, hammers away. Against insanity, against insanity against insanity. and we have 61 839 here, yay and yay and yay and yay. ---------------------------------------Some more words, fast and fast and fast and fast. The day is moving forward, marching and amarching. Parading along, strutting its stuff. The days of the writer, a day of anywriter. This is that time of the year, lots of papers are due, there are long line-ups at the printers in all of the colleges and universities. Author here will not be graded, she will be laughed at by editors, by agents, by all the gatekeepers in their little offices in new york city, in London, in Cambridge. That is where author usually sends her stuff, she is always rejected, always rejected. The persona of the always rejected one. But, hey, the rejecters, they are all so very nice and polite in rejecting here, their choke of words is superb. Nope, we are not the writerly sould who will jump of a bridge, we are more the writerly creature who will just jump back on the horse. The stiff-upper-lip kind of writer, the writer who knows that this is so much better a job than grave digging. Than waking up in the middle of the night to nurse a child, writing is just a futile endeavor, but it is not physically trying, not that much, not that much. Yes, you sit contorted in a chair, yes, you overuse your middle finger in your right hand, yes, you might develop carpal tunnel, if you are not playing your cards right, your cards right. Yes, you should stretch between typing spurts. Yes, you should move around the laptop. Should get up, the like the like. But you are basically an office worker, a typist. It is all doable, doable. And we type here type here type here type here. Now, is a writer a white collar worker, an artist, an entrepreneur? Employed at self, as the caption in linked-in goes? Ah. Let us type let us type. Maybe we are just a troubadour here, a trobarix, a minstrel, a poet. We are a wordcounter, we refer to ourselves as WE, we have slightly more than 61 000. Here and here and here and here and here and here. Actually, it is 62 248. Make that a full 63 thousand? Ah, let us 169

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type, let us type some more, nothing else to do, nothing else to do. The day is still young, still young. The day can wait, can wait, can wait. Should wait. 62 288, move forward, move forward. Somehow, it became nine twenty-three, when did that happen, when did that happen. The heater glucks, the two plants watch her, the brown paper basket is just standing there, stoically. The author is losing it, losing it, losing it, losing it. That is what happens if you are sitting cooped-up at a laptop, insanity comes with the territory, with the territory. That is why journalists sit in glass cubicles, at least that is how they do it in old Hollywood movies, with crumpled hats, with a from the lip dangling cigarette, anyhoo, author types some more types some more, she could do with some 200 more, before her neck totally freezes up, annoyingly annoyed, annoyingly annoyed. Author ponders, is writing a female profession or a male profession, hmm, could go either way, could go either way. It is basically a so very android profession, it is a very mechanistical profession, a so very technical job. You just peck at all these squares, hoping for the best, bracing for the worst. And we type we type we type we type. Only ten or so more, only, only. Author ponders, it is not that good to write 2500, it is so much better to shoot for a round number. 2000, 3000, anyhoo, we have three more, and we’re outta here, outta here, outta here. Forget about all the glitches, typing is over, writing is over. The day awaits, life awaits, the sun, the outside, the slight wind against one’s skin, awaits, awaits, awaits. -----------april 2- at the laptop again, typing, typing. The computer makes its weird and bizarre noises, the leitmotif, the slight consistent roar, and the short staccatos, the static acting up, static as in the noise static makes, the rubbing of wool against wool, the slight electrical funks, author ponders if she is using the right words, words right on right on right on. The language to be decoded, decoded. It is way pass morning, it is way past noon. The little shopping center down on arbutus 170

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was quite happening with its usual mix of retirees and schoolkids. Author had a coffee and a piece of banana bread, the one that is called banana loaf, even though it technically is merely a slice of a loaf. She talked to different people there, that happens when you walk into a shopping center, encounters, ah, encounters. But, hey, we are back here back here. Gotta fire up the machine, gotta feed 2500 words to it, gotta, gotta. You know the drill, you know the drill. What to write about, ah, what to type about? She could watch the telly, the news always gives ample amounts of fodder for writing, there is always something there to be worked up about, there are digustingish ideas en masse, there is always something there to be dissed, to be dissed. Indignation, indignation, that is what the media fosters, tries to evoke, evoke. Writers that want a reaction, a rattling against the status quo, a slight one, a slight one. Author could watch the soaps, and anysoap would do. Who falls for whom, who sleeps with whom. Yep, that is what matters, matters. Author has to give books back, has to give sweaters back, she has to do this and that and the other. She has to do her drawings to submit to the exhibit in nyc, she has to do this and that and the other. Has to fill the pages here, fast and fast and fast and fast. Ah, the typing the typing. author was contemplating to fly to Amsterdam, for five days, 3 nights there, 5 days on the road, well, more like in the air, it is a nonstop flight between schipohl and yvr, would have been fun fun, exhausting though, utterly utterly exhausting. And costly to boot. Thus, she just stayed put, she has to account for the title MINUTAE and TRAVELOGUE, otherwise, in other manners here. Seems the TRAVELOGUE part is just about going to the local shopping centre, any venture into the outdoors might as well be grandiosed up and be called a journey, a travel, the like and the like and the like. Amsterdam or arbutus shopping center, it is all the same, all the same. Or the mc donald’s on arbutus and king ed, the one near the movietheater and the bowling alley. Yep, it is all the same all the same. So people do not speak Dutch there, you can watch people speak Dutch on you tube, actually author just

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watched a news clip about earth hour. And to think that earth hour was only two days ago, you can be anywhere you want, instantly now, instantly now. Ah, the world wide web, the world wide web. the world wide web. Author ponders, she still needs 2000 words, to get to 65 thou, by the end of the day, the end of the day, the end of the day, the end of the day. Yep, repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat. --------------------------------------april in amsterdam, now there is a nice enough title for this her book. It is not about amsterdam, it is about the wish, the want to just go to amsterdam for five days, if she would have purchased the too, way too, overpriced ticket, she would now sit in the plane, it is 3:41, the flight is at 4:00. a regular KLM- flight, vancouver to schipohl, nine hours and twenty minutes. For some reason, it is nine hours and twenty minutes to go and nine hours and forty minutes to return, or maybe the opposite, she would have come back on friday, which is a holiday in canada, good friday, author ponders if it is a holiday in holland. She would have had a pancake at that place in the old city, she would have rented a bike. And biked without a helmet. She would have looked around dutch bookstores, she would have walked by the steydelijk, which is still under renovation. She might have gone to antwerp, for a day, for a day. Ah, amsterdam amsterdam. April in amsterdam. Author came upon the title when she saw the vitrine with books near the oakridge library, the one that said april in paris. April in amsterdam, sounds so much better, what with the two A's, the alliteration, yay, yay, yay. Author feels hungry, all she had is the banana bread slice, she should lose weight though, has to has to. She weighed ten ponds less, was ten pounds lighter, only in september, september. She definitely has to bring this down again, she has to barf it out, barf it out. Nope, we do not have an easting disorder here, we have a weighing way too much disorder. She has to do aerobics, dancing, she should be a thin girl a thin girl a thin girl. Not a fatty not a fatty. And we 172

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type and type and type here. Fast, yuh, fast fast. Sixty three five two two- 63522. yeah and yeah and yeah. The woman next to author types way too much, way too fast. One of those, you know one of those, of those. We still have 42 minutes on this station, and, hey, that is only the first hour. Ah, to be a writer a writer a writer a writer a writer. Author returned the lonely planet amsterdam book, the woman asked what was the problem, I did not go, she laughed, the saleslady, that is, author should not pen dialogues, she messes them up, messes them up. Author returned the two too colourful sweaters to the gap in oakridge, the ones that scream I will try something new, I will hop on a plane to amsterdam. Author here looked longingly at the two sweaters, somehow they were so very colorful, they signaled spring and rejuvenation and the try something new element. Some person sits next to author, his clothes reek like pot, author will wrap this up, she will be dead from the smell, once she finished her writings. And we type, type, fast and fast and fast and fast. -----------------------------------------------april in amsterdam, might as well. Yep, it is a title as good as any, the caveat being that nothing happens in Amsterdam. She ponders, it is about wanting to go on a trip to Amsterdam and not going, but if push comes to shove the wanderlust element of the novel is not that grave. On the telly, king of queens, now an ad for blockbuster or for dish tv. Now, deacon and doug and some other guy, all of tem in IPS. And we type and we type here, type here. She feels pretty exhausted, her inability to write good is doing her in, it always does, always does. She still has to fashion 1300 words, which is kind of torturous, writing is just not fun, sometimes the words are like butter and, well, sometimes, they ain’t, anyhoo, keep on typing here keep on typing here. Now, a discussion between carrie and another woman, author here just feels like keeling over, the exhaustion of writing is insurmountable, so this is writers block writers block. The title sucks, the plot sucks,

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everything just sucks sucks. Maybe she was not born to do this, maybe maybe maybe maybe. 63 853 words, arrggh, we still need some 1200 words, some 1300 words. ------------------She ponders, maybe APRIL IN AMSTERDAM is not that good a title, yuh, keep on looking keep on looking. There is a different title for this novel each and every week, tough choice tough choice tough choice. 63 905, 63 906, 63 907. Yay and yay, the like, ah, the like, the like. 63 920, type some more, write some more. --------------------------March 3- middle of the night, scrubs is on, which is kinda inconvenient, they never show that show during the day, you have to be post as an owl to catch it. A show about an ER-room or, maybe, just a hospital, in the middle of the night, the middle of the night. Author ponders, should she lose the april in Amsterdam title, if she would have caught the flight to Amsterdam she would now make her way from the airport to the station, author ponders if they finished the reno, anyways, who would buy a book that is called april in Amsterdam, but is not about Amsterdam, some kind of imaginary Amsterdam voyage, then again, all writings are make-beliefs, anyways, anyways, anyways. On the telly, turk and bambi, talking, the scene changes, author feels like barfing. Her day is weirded up, day is night, night is day, she feels jetlagged without having been on a jet. She sleeps during the day and is awake during the night, she might as well watch New York PIX-early news, watch New York waking up while she is here on the westcoast, typing, typing. We have 64 116, if she goes by the 2500 per day rule, she has to fashion 3400 words to make up for the missed Monday words. Somehow she is getting confused with her math here, this is not gonna work, now, is it, is it? But it is march 3 already, author just notices that she entered the 174

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wrong date, it is april 3, geez, if she cannot even stick to the simple facts, how will this text possibly make it, make it. On the telly, some talking hamsters, that is very normal, now, isn’t it, now isn’t it? -----------Ok, april 3. Put the right date in, yeah, why not why not. Kind of tough to follow the story while typing typing. we have 64 247, on the telly some kind of love-romancy stuff, a white van crashing into a wall and blowing up, the story is just totally going outta whack and the april in Amsterdam thread is not going anywhere, either. It works better in a film, you have the main story and then suddenly the story shifts into some imaginary reality, somehow that does not work that well in writing, there are exercises, how-to’s. The ones that you do in school, in creative writingish classes, you learn the craft of how to construct a story, the right way, yep, the right way the right way. And we type here type here type here type here. On the telly everybody hates chris, ah, one sitcom after the next one sitcom after the next. Ah well, save, spellcheck, for now, for now for now. ---------------------------On the telly, the news from Brooklyn, a gunshot, it is about six in nyc, whereas it is 2:43 here on the westcoast. Writing, typing, against the news, against the ads. On the other program there was a biography of meg ryan, it is part of the true Hollywood story series, anyhoo, let us type and type and type and type and type. Author here should be able to put in a lotta words, not that she has a plot here, a narrative here. Now the news, mitt Romney-rick santorum stuff. Now a talk about taxes, author ponders, what else to write about. She could once more start describing the interface on the monitor, the little icons, yep, that should fill the page, could fill the page. Her writing is just deteriorating, she just does it in the same way that you would do exercises, riding a stationary bike, 175

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running on the treadmill. Writing as sport as sport as sport as sport as sport. Always helps to repeat the words, if you want to ramp up your wordcount, just repeat the words, call it artistic, after all language is some kind of sing sang, now, is it, is it? -------------And what to write about next, what what? Ah, the minutiae of a writer, the day to day, the day to day. The entropy, the blank page. An ad for a fast food breakfast, now a chirpy anchor man in nyc, good morning, he is happy, has his dark suit on, who are these people who yell into a camera at the weirdest times of the day. It is 5:57 in nyc, a wake-up song, author here feels slightly disoriented, it is bizarre, like living in different universes, in different realities. Writing against different time zones, you can easily slip into other realities, how will this effect her writing, will it make it more fragmented, even more fragmented? And we have 64 707 here. The two women on the telly, one in red, one in blue, now another one in some kind of glamour lavender. All of these woman are wearing sleeveless dresses, kind of a weird choice for an anchorwoman, they are not going to a cocktail party, they are delivering hard news, hard news. And we type here type here type here type here. 64 774, 775, 777. ----------------Still typing, typing. author ponders, she should go to sleep, but, hey, she kind of slept in the early evening, that kinda wacked out her sleeping rhythm, thus she might as well do her writings, her typings, if she wants to go from 64 822, to 67 500, she has to just keep on typing typing. this is getting pretty weird here, the number of words is taking precedence over the quality of words, yay, yay, quantity over quality, quantity over quality. Now it is six thirty in new york, author might just stay awake, go to the tim hortons on dunbar, in the morning, then to the fitness center, it is really 176

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time to get into the right rhythm of workouts, she has to lose weight, be fit, the like the like the like the like. If typing incessantly will bring her there, yep, why not why not? Her syntax is off, so is the grammar, but, hey, that is what happens when you sit over the laptop, hunched over, hunched over, typing a-typing a-typing. 64 950, yay and yay and yay and yay and yay. ------------------------------Not that many words to 65 000, only 23 or something, type and type and type and type. In the wee hours, there was a bar brawl, the bartender bit off a finger or maybe somebody bit off the finger of the bartender, anyhoo, there is a piece about beer goggles in London, all the news is pretty weird, totally trivial stuff, nothing but fluff, nothing but fluff. What passes as news these days, it is total entertainment, yeah, totally, totally. Author ponders, her writing is really deteriorating, nothing but slang, now an ad for a bank, now one for dunkin ice tea, America runs on dunkins, ah to watch American ads in Canada, seems, everything is weird here, bizarre and strange, ah so strange. Author has no concrerte subject matter, she might as well complain and rant, everything to fill the page, fill the page, fill the page. And we have 65 119, 65 123. -------------Now watching a cooking show, eggs, potatoes, string beans, a vinaigrette, you get pretty hungry first thing in the morning. Ah, to watch a cooking show, so much more fun than listening to all the dispatches on murders and the like, now, once more this guy with funny accent and all the food, all the food. The guy’s name is chuck, but he definitely has a foreignish accent. So, how come his name is chuck? Anyhoo, let us type and type and type and type. We have 65 209, author feels pretty lousy, ah stop this, spellcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck, save, save 65 227, ah well ah well ah

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well. The cooking show talks a lot about Japanese bread crumbs, whatever that is, whatever that is, whatever that is. And 65 255 it is, it is, it is. -------------------------Eight in the morning, in langara, she walked thru the rain, even kind of jumped into a puddle, her right sock is slightly soaked, she sits down in the lab, for some reason the computer is still on, which is great, great. Author here is slightly disoriented, she did not sleep very well, anyhoo, let us just type here and type here and type here and type here. Students here are groggy, last minute printouts, author ponders, there is a lot to write about, too much to choose from too much too much. One thing is certain, she is not in Amsterdam, but, hey, she feels disoriented and dislocated, jet-lagged without having been on a jet, you do not need to pay for an airline ticket, just fall asleep on the sofa while the telly is on, wake up, fall asleep again, it is the same kind of experience, yay, air travel for cheapos. And so much better for the environment, and and and. Author here, ponders, her writing is definitely not improving, it is just stomping along, stolpering along. And while we’re at it, we might just make up tons of words, tons of words. The pretty lady left, the one who seems to vie for a career in broadcasting. The woman in red is still there, so are others here, others here. Author could describe all this, she could philosophize about the state of literature, about publishing, there are tons of issues to discuss, but, hey, if push comes to shove, author here is not an issue-writing kind of creature. She just pushes down keys, that is all she wants to do, all and all and all. Her jacket is soaked, she cannot really hang it over the chair, because it will soak thru her sweater if she leans back. She could put it on the table or the chair next to her, author ponders if this is stuff worth discussing, who will read this, who would read this. She should pay people to read these her writings, yay and yay and yay and yaya. The free market does not work in her favour, the free market makes her writings disappear, online and online and online. Not good not 178

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good not good not good. She ponders, she still has 2000 words to write, fast and fast and fast and fast and fast. Writing, typing, why did she chose this as profession, she is not talented, nontalented. Her writing chops are non-existent and, btw, what are writing chops anyways? Ah, to type to type to type. People come in, author ponders, she could describe them, but why? People are people, given that there are seven billion of them, you never get out of fodder for writing. Author feels exhausted, exhausted at the beginning of the day. She hates writing, yay, hates it hates it. And we type here type here type here. 65 741, 43, 45. 65 750- ah, words and words and words and words. Save this, reluctantly, so very very reluctantly. --------------------------------------------------Author here is totally sleeping on the job, writing is like that, you feel that you are chained to your computer, there is no muse, none, you are just another dilbert, even if you work for yourself, if you are employed at self, as linked-in calls it. And we type here type here, what is important is the wordcount, ah, the bloody bloody wordcount. In between typing, author here checks facebook, yay, she is definitely employed at self, she tries to sneak away, tries to cheat, in this case cheat herself. Only the wordcount counts, only and only and only and only. If you have enough words, you are fine, who will really read this, is it even readable, now, is it, is it? Selfdoubts of a writer, omnipresent, always yep, always, always. And we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. The printer is restocked, refilled, ah, let us type and type and type. 65 928, fast and fast and fast. ------------------And once more, start this up, fast and fast and fast. Author here tries to finish this up as fast as she possibly can, there is nothing like sitting contorted at a keyboard, to type and type and type and 179

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type and type. She saw a woman she had an English class with, about eleven years ago, wow, and still no publishing contract, none, none, none. This cannot be good, not that good. Anyhoo, let us type, let us type, the freedom to type up whatever we feel like, that should be worth something, anything. Author ponders, she was a better writer eleven years ago, a more craftful one, the like, the like, a blessed one, an articulate one. Yay, yay, in retrospective everything is better, she is definitely better at churning out high volumes of stuff, text after text after text. Slight ones, reluctant ones, ah, bull, any text will do. Her writing is out of whack, it always is, always is. 66 098, only 1500 more, give or take some give or take some give or take some. ------------------------------------------------------------------She should still type still type. Only 1500, only, only. At least she is sitting on one of these rolly chairs, you can go back come forward. You can look up, at the bookshelves, at the people here, can tilt your head to the left, look at the super big recycling bin, can do this that and the other. From what author here can see, she is the only person who uses this place as writers studio, as a room of one’s own. Ah, this better be good, ah and ah and ah and ah. Sighing instead of good writing, that should work, it has to, has to. We still need 1300, 1300, 1300. A woman in beige riding boots, they are not technically for riding, she is just wearing her jeans in her boots. Looks nice, nice. Author is disintegrating here, she should have taken an aerobics class, would have been better for her health, yay and yay and yay. Writing is so bad for your posture, so bad and so bad and so bad and so bad. She takes words and randomly arranges and rearranges them, against the wetness outside, against the boredom here inside. Against this and that and the other. We don’t make much sense, now, do we do we. And 66322 it is, it is. ------------------------------------------------

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So, the current time in Amsterdam is 6 oh five, no 6:04. Author here is not quite sure how she can weave this into her text, if she would have gone to Amsterdam, she would not be writing this, so, definitely, the text won, worldlit won. Besides, who goes to Amsterdam on a whim, stuff like that you plan or you write about it, anyhoo, we still need 1100 words, 1100, 1100. Author has this weird and bizarre feel of a stiff neck, a typer’s back, she feels sick, thirsty, she types forward, regardless, regardless, regardless. There is music in the air, from the i-phone of the woman two computers from here, anyhoo, let us type and type and type and type. What does that even mean, nobody is here to prevent author from typing, it just sounds good, just sounds good. Author here is losing it, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. 66 488. 66 488. 66 488. 66 488, 66 488. Save, spellcheck, the like, ah, the like, the like. ----------------------------------------------------Author here could still type, still type. Her car can be still parking in oakridge, its time does not expire, yet, yet. She might as well feed the last thousand words to the machine, fast and fast and fast and fast. She is sitting here now for approximately two hours, this cannot be good, not that good. How do you spell obsession, obsession. There is not even anything here worth describing, except for the woman with the pissed-off face, the red arrow over the hand-sanitizer, the yellow book in the bookshelf. The lights that go on, that go out, the rolling of a pen, the clicker clacker of her own typing. Yep, we are losing it here, that should happen if you sit in the same position, it must, yep, it must. Nobody cares about the words, if they are put together artfully, skillfully, at this point it is all about the wordcount, yep, the wordcount. Still need 800. 800. Would be nice to finish this up, dance back to the station, all thru dewy meadows, dewy meadows. That is what writers do, they first wax along and then they dance thru dewy meadows, yep, it is all so very romantic,

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romantic. Her back hurts, she contorts her neck, stares down at the keyboard, the keyboard. And 66 729 we have, we have. -------------------------------------------There is nothing to describe here, now, is there is there? Writing is the worst of professions, the dowdiest, the suckiest. It is quite draining, draining. And we still need some more words, still need some more words. Ah, to be addicted to writing, to writing. And 66 783 we have, we have. -------------------In one whoosh, we should finish this here, finish this here. 66 800. Ah, what a nice round number, yuh, how nice, how nice. Author here did not even take a shower, she just rolled outta bed, actually rolled outta sofa. Her writing sure is abysmal, but she definitely has the unkemptness down pat, and, hey, that is all we need here need here. Dress for success, for a writer that means take a bath once in a blue moon. And don’t you dare to get a haircut, no and no and no. author has tings, pangs of a slight toothache, hopefully it will go away, go away. It is ten eleven, lots of people are printing out stuff, stuff. And we type here type here type here type here. Only 600 words, 600, 600. Should be nice to finish this up, to leave this place, this station. Should be nice should be nice. She cannot really leave , she does not have a student card, she has to ask the librarian to give her a guest pass, it is all very complicated, so very very complicated. Yep, she could be great writer, one of fame, of fortune, if she only got the logistics right, yay and yay and yay. And all the yays here should do it, do it. 500 words, still, 500, still and still and still. She feels like collapsing, collapsing, collapsing and barfing whichever comes first whichever comes first. -------------

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500 words, how tough can that be, how tough, how tough. The problem is, of course, that she has to roll back to the keyboard, come next morning, come next morning. At this point, author here has lost all concepts of time, she might as well be in Amsterdam. The dislocation here is paramount, even though she is pat here in Vancouver. A person in orange puts his black backpack on the table next to author, he puts his blue wind breaker on the chair, he goes away, seemingly purchases a printing card, goes to the printer. Ah, the action of a college library, and we type here and type here and type here and type here. 350 words, that is all we need, all we need here. --------------------------------------A woman in dark pink, a flowerful textbook, glasses. And we type here type here type here type here. Author should go back to painting, her writing career is way too stalling, way too stalling. It will not go anywhere, now, will it, will it? A woman with earrings dangling and a plaid folder, another woman in red and some glimmery stuff, another woman and an umbrella. We are losing it here, but that seems to be the permanent state of the writer and anywriter at that. Must be that the blood circulation is kind of halted, what with the contorted neck, the constant staring down at the keyboard. And only 250, only 250, only 250. ------------------------------------------------Some stretching, some turning on the chair, ah, the words, the words, the words, the words. Author ponders, which button does she have to press in order to have the page number on each and every page, ah, who knows, and if push comes to shove, who cares, who cares. The main issue here is the wordcount, the wordcount. --------------------------------------------

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Only 150, only, only. Author here is no mathematician, her estimates are kind of random. Even though the little blue icon shows the wordcount, you always have to subtract it from the wordcount you try to achieve, thus, writing is tough, tough. Maybe, a subject matter would help, nah, that is not how author here rolls, rolls. Ah, and only 100, run, horse, run, as fast as you can as fast as you can. Woman in red and orange, man in black and glasses, a book, a green sheet. The noise of shoes leaving, the noise of shoes coming. Yep, and we type here type here type here type here. Only 50, yay, fifty will do, will do, will do. A red umbrella, how quaint, how quant. Something prassels onto the floor. Against it, against it. Only 30, only 30, only 30. Ah, she will sail back thru dewy meadows, well, if she does not lose it completely by the time this is ended, ended. If the book is still circulating, we have 67 507, yay, yay, outta here, outta here, sail thru the meadows, why not and why not and why not and why not. 67 537, yay and yay and yay. ------------------------------------------in the downtown library, on the third floor, typing a-typing. Author is sitting down at this computer station that seems to belong to somebody else, somebody who has left a long time ago. She is kind of worried that that person will come back and claim the station, she looks suspiciously at all the people walking by, this is now my station, my station. I am penning my masterpiece, my current masterpiece that is. Anyhoo, outside, quite a rain, quite a rain. This seat is really good, you can look down at the street, you see cars, passers-by, the street is darkish, the pavement wet, author listened to this architecture prof who said, well, in the rain everything changes, the buildings get dark, when they are wet, which is totally true, the rain makes everything change colour, colour. The talk was a week ago, author actually bumped into the prof in safeway, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here. Author does not need to type, she has outtyped herself for today, but, hey, why not put in some more hours at the office, it is warm here, so much warmer 184

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than at her place where the broken heater rules paramount. Better to type here against the hurtful pangs between the shoulder blades, better, better, better. Better than freezing, a-freezing. Yay, yay, yay, you win some you lose some, yay and yay. And the wordcount marches forward, forward, forward. And we type and type and type and type. -------------------------------------------------------she looks at the HOW TO PRINT instruction, the one that is plastered onto the hard drive, she ponders how she could incorporate that into her text, her texts. A bum yells racist comments at a woman, she just laughs it off. But, hey, it is really weird and strange, anyhoo, author totally reacts and talks to her neighbour about it, then again, maybe, she should not have commented. And the day marches forward, the rain outside, the cars drive by. This library is always full of so very sketchy persons, not nice, not nice, not nice, not nice. ------------------------------------------------67 957, let us see if we can make it to 68 000. well, obviously we can, only 40 words, only 40 words. Author ponders, she feels very dislocated, kind of weird, kind of bizarre, somebody sneezes and six more words is all we need here, all we need here all we need here. 68 011 it is, it is, it is, it is. The rain is still coming down, the darkness, noon in vancouver, noon in vancouver. ----------------------------------how to kill time by typing, that should be the title of her book. Not APRIL IN AMSTERDAM, not all the other options. Timekilling, timekilling. Pecking at weird and strange and bizarre keys, yay and yay and yay and yay. Author does not make that much sense, that is what happens if the part in between your shoulder blades cramps up cramps up cramps up cramps up. And save and

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spellcheck, person next to her is playing quite an elaborate video game, the drawings are superb, you can click on the buildings and drag them, it is kind of a sim-city meet ivanhoe, anyhoo, we type here type here, stop, spellcheck, the like the like the like the like. --------------------------------------april 4- she might as well start typing again again, against the slight bla of the day, the reluctantly summery sun, against the weirdness, the bizarreness of sitting in the exact spot that she sat in 24 hours ago, yesterday, it was rainy outside, today it is sunny, yep, floor numero three, central library, downtown, downtown. Nose-ringed woman in ringely, striped toque, so very young, twenty max. reading stuff, taking notes, something about a jerome guy, maybe a writer, she does research, research. Her left hand writes down stuff, yep, a left-handy. Maybe that is how she ended up in writing about jerome, they aka the educational establishment tends to shoo its lefthandies into the arts, the humanities. Not into the hard sciences. Author ponders, she should really write an op-ed piece 4 the times, to quote elaine benez, elaine benez. Well, if you are a die in the flesh seinfeld afficionado, you will get this quip, and if you are not, nobody can help you. Author ponders, she had a foret noir cake in le ganache, life is good is good is good. The cake has a tad of kirsch in it, author will not be able to pray versus mecca, what does a nice little muslim girl do having traces of alcohol in her gateau. Oh yeah, oh yeah. And we type here type here, talking 'bout religion, not her thing here, not her thing. We just write about the sunny weather outside or 'bout the rainy weather for that matter, yep, nothing consequential, only bla and bla and bla and bla. The banal, the everyday, the life in the city. You cannot really write in a cottage in Maine, there is nothing to see, nothing to do, nothing to observe. You have to roam thru the world in order to have inspiration, inspirations. Author ponders, there are others, who get their inspiration by sitting still and staring vacuously into space, author here is not one of those artists, not one of those writers. There are 186

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different ways of doing things, author needs, craves an audience, she likens her writing spurts to performances, little everyday performances. She types in public, yep, she writes in public. She nurtures the illusion, the delusion of being as a creative creature in the world, whether that is true or not, but, hey, the strive for the persona of the artiste is everything, anything and paramount. This is what gets her going, you have to forge your way as an artist, basically, because the competition is so very very fierce, fierce. There are tons of people on this planet who have extra time to write, who are vying for an agent, a publisher, author is not quite sure anymore what she wanted to say, wanted to say. And we have another ah so short run-on-sentence here, the day marches forward, ah, forward. Person in green shirt and blond red hair and too much muscles, the noise of people talking, in the back in the back. The escalator, roushing a-roushing. The different lights and shadows, outside and outside and outside. Drive forward, write forward, type forward, save this, spellcheck this, the like and the like and the like. Woman at other table, stretching, ah, a-stretching. ---------------------author ponders, “next to big bang” had 18 pageviews on issue, with a higher traffic map in the US than in Canada. Seems, this is how author here does her focus group research, by going online and looking at a Denmark-based document -haring group's research datas. Yay, that is how we determine what to name our little novel here, then again, “next to big bang” sounds pretty catchy, ah, a-catchy. Author here has a new found penchant for doing the A and the hyphen thingie, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here, some more and some more and some more and some more. Still 42 minutes on this very station, the day is stalling, a-stalling, astalling, a-stalling, a-stalling, a-stalling. -----------------------------------------------------

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2012

Ah, to type fast and fast. Old Christine adventures, after big bang, author and all her sitcoms, she just has to type some more some more some more some more. Some 1200 words, until 70000,70000. Against the constant laughtracks, yeah, yeah. Her back pangs away, on the right side, the right side. And we type here and type here and type here. Author should go for a walk, a rigorous one, she should do some exercise biking, fitness, ah, fitness. You know, you don’t want to court a stroke or some kind of bypass surgery, we do not really need stents in our artheries here. What we need, is 1100 more words, words and words. And some more exercise, some more some more. Author does not really have anything to say, the logic of her writing is subpar, and we have 68 906 here here. ---------------------------------------68 911, some more words and some more words. The two plants near the window, the brown paper basket with the filigree border. There still is no plot here, none and none and none and none. Just the struggle against the language, the constant one, the constant one. The stagnation in some kind of writerly ghetto, author ponders if she should go back downtown to the readings by four ah so published authors. One is a poet, one is a novelist, and the two others are, who knows. The reading starts at seven thirty, somehow sitting here on the green sofa seems like more fun, more fun. We only need 1000 words, 1000, 1000, 1000. --------------And then there is the theater thingie in sfu, in the new woodward building. Both events are free, there is of course the movie theater with the new Julia roberts movie, 12: 30 and about five bucks for an oversized box of junior mints, of junior mints. And we still need 900 here, give or take some, give or take some. Some stretchings, some more typings. Yay yay, how hard can it be to type 188

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2012

up a novel. Every month is nanomonth, and we type here and type here and type here and type here. Against boredom, against entropy. Against the total lack of plot. nope, no thickening plot for you, no thinning one either. Just the monotony of typing of typing. 69 147 words, 69 147 words, 69 147. The show is pretty funny and that is not really conducive to producing a certain amount of words. You listen in to the story on the telly and you try to write, somehow, the brain does not work like that, the idea of multitasking is just a big big fluke. 800 words, 800, 800. Author here could describe the monitor, in detail, in detail. On the idiotbox, the one with Christine and matthew reliving their dream of becoming professional dancers. And now some ad for baked beans. And we type here type here type here type here. Random words, ah, random sentences. A fitness club ad, an ad for Toyota. Still 750, 750, 750. And here is the salad dressing ad again, and here is an ad for THE OFFICE. Author should really take a stab at writing about more important issues than a nivea ad and a tide ad. And now an ad for sketchers, sketchers. Hmm, another sketchers ad. And back to the show, to the show. 675, 675, 675. -------------------------------One could once more describe the two plants near the window, after all this is her own room, that is all an author needs. The only thing that are happening here are the images on the telly, thus author here has to make up stuff, a story, a story. We are not really storytellers here, more the kind of author who observes something and then spits a description out, onto the keyboard. We recreate moments, pin them down, for posterity, for posterity. Apparently that is not enough, not enough, not enough. And repeating parts of the sentence, that does not help either, not and not and not and not and not. 189

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2012

69 441, only 500, only 500, only 500. And an ad for some clothing company, an ad for some kind of casino. Yeah, the page is filling up, not necessarily with good stuff, with important stuff. But it is filling up, nonetheless. And here we have an ad for some kind of cheese, some kind of cheese And now, the king of queens. Well, after the salad dressing ad, the car insurance ad, the ad for carpetings. A tad less than 500, run and run and run. We could save this, could and should spellcheck, spellcheck. Yay, a mattress ad. 450, 450. Now doug and carrie, in a restaurant slash billiard place. Doug watching a game on the telly. Laughtracks aka poetry in motion. The plants and the paper basket. The intro, the title song for king of queens. Yeah, yeah, art school sure did pay off. We do not paint anymore here, do not draw anymore, but, hey, we type a lot type a lot. A new novel every four month or what passes as novel these days. --------------------------------

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2012

Less than 400, less and less and less. Ah, to have 70 000, ah, bragginhg rights, bragging rights. What do you do thes days, I write novels that sail thru cyberspace, great, huh, great, huh. You have to psyche yourself into writing, into typing. 69 666, 69 666. -----------------Fat jokes on the telly, laughtracks, laughtracks. Author ponders, given that German has a substantial higher amount of compound words than English, it should be much easier to reach the 50 000 word mark in English. Yep, these are the things that author here thinks about, that happens when you watch a substantial amount of shows with deafening laugh tracks. Your brain just turns into mush, ever so slowly, ever so steadily. Ah, 69 747, write on type on type on. A Toyota ad, a mattress ad. Two plants, a paper basket. An ad for a plumber. And once more, ther casino, the casino. Mr. clean magic eraser, an ad for a steak place. We need 200, 200, 200. Ah, to finish 70 000, and the story does not matter, not matter at all. We need the word count here, the obsession with the word count, that is paramount. The problems of a writer, her whining, her rantings. Still some more laughtracks, some more typing, against the back that cramps up, against stagnation, the like and the like and the like. 150 words, 150, 150. It is six eighteen, now there is something to write about. Ah, to wallow in writers block in writers block. 49 877, just type and type and type. Some poetry, some prose, anything will do, should do. 191

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2012

Only 115, how hard can it be, how hard, how hard, how hard. 100 words, 100, 100. Actually, it is more like 90, she might as well hack her way forward, forward. ------------------------80 words, 80, 80. The end is pretty near, just keep on typing, typing. 60, ah, 60, ah 60. An ad for j. c. penney. An ad for advil. 69 955, and ad for some kind of red car, a civic, an ad for a furniture store. And we type here type here type here type here. Do not look back do not look back. A pizza ad, and only eight more words, only, only, only. And 70 000 it is, it is. Who cares about the show, the ads, the laugh tracks. We have our word count here- and that is all that counts, all that counts, all that counts. -----------april 5- in the library, downtown, downtown. Eleven forty-five in the morning, pedestrians walking by, cars rolling by. Author here starts a-typing a-typing. The street is happening one floor below, the author is actually looking down at the street. And it is to her right, no, wait, to her left, no, make that, to her right. She cannot really see what is going on, because she is staring stoically at the keyboard, one can only see the motions on the street out of the corner of one's eyes, just like the mouse-movings of the person at the other computer station, the one that is, wait, opposite of author, well, either to the right or to the left. Navigating through directions, not author's thing here, not, not and not. A yellow cab, a person, she looks up, she can see the floor above, yay, yay, the library. The colosseum in vancouver, yay and yay and yay. Typing, ah, a-typing, a-typing. The ring of a telephone, the rumple of someone typing. A woman walking by. Hey, focus on your writing 192

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2012

here, on your writing, your writing, your writing. Author wakes up with a hurting back, maybe, she types too much, writes too much. Still ponders about amsterdam, if she would have taken the flight, it would be nine o'clock now. In amsterdam. She would go to the cafe near her hotel and have a rosee, yay and yay and yay and yay. She remembers that place, it is not really a cafe, more the lobby of a hotel. Last time she was there, two women started talking, one was a salesperson for an outdoor equipment store, the other one was a sales woman for some other company. Both were american, both had little children, suburbia in amsterdam,. They were there on a business trip. And if push come to shove, so was author. Author ponders, this was three years ago, this time her trip to amsterdam would have been pure holiday, a vacay, a vacay. She would walk by the station, wonder, whether the renovations are finished. The steydelik is not open yet, so, maybe, all the buildings take time, take time. Author ponders, if she would have gone to amsterdam, she would not do her writings, her typings. She would have missed the readings in the basement of the library, the two readers who were productive well-published authors. Yep. She was at the reading, she was late though. The night before, the night before, the night before. Author made up her mind that she should attend some kind of event each and every week, or, better yet, too. She did the reading thingie on wednesday, she might do the movie thingie today. Mirrormirror, with julia roberts. In the cinema near to the bowling alley, yay, why not why not why not why not. Author ponders if she should use YAY or YEAH, stylistic considerations, ah, stylistic, stylistic, stylistic, stylistic. Author wanted to go to IKEA or to COSTCO, something really big-boxy, something full of whiffs of suburbia, she ponders if that should not be her subject matter, the love-hate relationship of north america with suburbia, it is such a quintessential theme, country mouse versus city mouse, one of those themes as old as the theme of male versus female, we need universal themes, yay and yay and yay and yay, love hate, death birth, the like and the like and the like and the like. Nobody is

193

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2012

interested in the qualms of some artist, nobody, nobody. Except for maybe other artists, but they don’t have time to read, they are busily producing art, yay and yay and yaya and yay. Author ponders, maybe the YAY is outta place, but, hey, who in her right mind would read this bullshit anyways, anyways. Author ponders, maybe insulting the reader is not the way to go, you have to say stuff like DEAR READER, DISTINGUISHED READER, ah, author here is so very very bad at this writing thingie, this writing thingie. And still no plot, none, nada, zip and zilch. She should go back to penning grocery lists, then again she never buys more than 4 items at a time, how tough is it to remember that, remember that. Cheese and crackers and juice and chocolate, that is what we live on here, live on here. The fridge is kinda sketchy anyways, anyways. You cannot put milk into it, ice cream, you just have to shop for stuff that you eat then and there, then and there, then and there. And 70 837 it is, it is. Still need 1800, fast and fast and fast and fast and fast. So, to go back to the penning of grocery lists issue. A grocery list with only four items, that will not make for a literary masterpiece. Author ponders, she jumps way too much from idea to idea, she was not like that four years ago, her writing has definitely deteriorated, all these rejection slips do that to you do that to you. They do you in, do you in, it is all just a big conspiracy against the lowly writers, big publishing companies silencing the voices of the little guys. Amazon chooses what gets published, Bertelsmann chooses what gets published. Not that some indie company is much better, much bertter. Anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here. Count the words, count the words, you just keep on typing a-typing. Try to make some sense, slightly, ah, slightly. And write and type and write and type. Passers by, on the street, cars driving by. A summery day in vancouver, while it is still spring, still spring. So nice to sit here, so much better than the place with the broken heater. Sounds of coins in the printer, and we type here and type here type here. How nice that we did not fly to amsterdam, what with the airplane a-shaking a-shaking. Ah, way to put 194

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2012

the A and the hyphen randomly in front of a verb, ah, so poetic so poetic. The fat guy in the back coughs, people making noise on the escalator. A man in orange, throws his bag on to the computerstation next to author, you know, and you thought that writing is not a dangerous job, it is, it is, it is, it is. The library, full of so very dangerous people, gotta leave, gotta leave, gotta run, run, run. ---------------------------------------------------So, still 1400 words waiting to be typed up. On the telly, an ad, something about furniture, and after that the rest of big bang. Sheldon talking mandarin gibberish to the maître’d in Szechuan palace. It is the same guy who played in Seinfeld, talk about type cast. Then again there are Leslie Winkle and Lenard Hofstadter, author ponders if she puts in too much time in front of the idiot box. And now, new adventures of old Christine, but, hey, we have 71 194 words here, words here, words here, words here. Just keep on typing, typing. author ponders if she should go to the movie theater near the bowling alley, to see the new Julia Roberts film. The one about snow white, somehow author is not really that interested in a snow white movie. Disney did it already, who really wants to see a movie with Julia Roberts and some Audrey Hepburn clone. Sabrina meeting Nottingham, but without any significant hugh grant in there. It would be just a waste of time, a waste of time, a waste of time. On the telly, laughtracks, author has seen this before, one of those weird discussions between Matthew and Richard. 71 310 words, 71 310 words. And now a J.C.Penney ad, which is not really that fruitful when you are living in a country where there is no J.C.Penney. those ad people don’t really have a clue what they are doing, doing. Luckily author here knows what she is doing, she pushes down all these keys, well not sequentially, but consequentially. Author uses all the wrong words, but, hey, it should help to use big words that do not really make sense. A Toyota ad, author ponders, maybe her sentences make sense after all. It is 195

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2012

five in the afternoon, it would be 3 o’clock in the morning if she was in Amsterdam. Her hotelroom looked at this immense parking lot full of bicycles, ah, so very, very Dutch. Heaven, exoticness. And we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. 71 457 words, we need 1000 more, 1000, 1000, 1000. Author is not that happy with her writing, nothing really makes sense, she ponders if she can excuse her glitches with calling her text artsy. If nothing makes sense, it must be artsy, it should be artsy. You know, artsy fartsy. Author ponders if serious art could be called artsy-fartsy. Ah, there must be a paper in there somewhere, somewhere. 1000 words 1000 1000. Even less, 950, 950. On the telly, laughtracks, author ponders if describing laughtracks is enough action for a novel. And what is a novel, anyways, anyways? Is it ok to repeat words at random, at random. Is coherence what we are shooting for here, now, is it, is it? --------------------------And now, another New Adventures of Old Christine episode. A mattress ad, an ad for a casino. Same old, same old. Shows at the same time, ads at the same time. Continuity, continuity, continuity, continuity, continuity. ---------------------Author here ponders how to fix the problem with the page numberings, for some reason there is only a page number on the even pages, but none on the odd pages. Which button to push, which button to push. And we type here type here type here. 71 665. Let us type some more type some more. While the show is going on, while the two plants are near the window, while the paper 196

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2012

basket is still in its place, still in its place. 71 699, yay, we only need 800 words here. How tough can it be to pen eight hundred words, especially if you write out each and every number, to fill the page to fill the page. -----------Author feels like having ice cream, anything but to sit here and type. There is nothing as boring as sitting cooped up in a room and trying to will oneself into writing a text, nothing, ah, nothing, nothing. And once more, the same old J.C.Penney ad, actually it says only jcp, jcp. Author ponders, she could analyze the likes of kfc and jcp, somehow there are more interesting things to kill time with. Like counting the words, all these words, all these words, all these words. How many words does Anna Karenina have, how many are there in war and peace? Anyhoo, we have 71 842 here, on a sunny day in early april, in early april. In this slightly reluctant master piece, the one that does not seem to be headed for greatness. The one that will rot in a basement, or in the clouds in the clouds. Author ponders, the term is actually THE CLOUD, not THE CLOUDS, and whatever happened to CYBERSPACE, CYBERSPACE. Author has problems with the language, many problems, ah so many problems. Maybe her writing days are over, over. But, hey, we need 500 words more, give or take some, give or take some. Author needs fresh air, she should go down to the central library, tonight they have opera singing there, in the library, the library. A library that passes for an opera house, ah well, oh well, ah well. Or she could go to the café on Trafalgar, the one that has open mic night. Or she could just go for a walk, anything, anything. Once she has this wrapped up, once she has written enough words, enough words. Only 300, 300, 300. -------------------------------------

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2012

King of queens, the first episode of two. Each and every day, there are two rerun episodes, at six in the afternoon. Author ponders what to write about, what to write about. -----------300 words 300 300. ---------------King of queens is pretty funny, author here has never seen this one. How do you type 300 words while still watching the show? And we type here type here type here. 72 092, 72 094. Random words, ah, random words, random words. ----------There is nothing to say, nothing to say. 72 111, 72 111. ----------An ad for mens wearhouse, an ad for some car. A ford ad, that is. A fashion ad, for the top model show, a cortizon ad. And back to the show, laugh tracks, laugh tracks, laugh tracks laugh tracks. A hard wood floor ad, an ad for the same casino that was advertized before. We still need 400 words here, 400, 400. Author kind of gets confused when counting, apparently she only needs 300, her whole writing is getting out of whack, how can you write and wordcount, all at the same time, all at the same time. An ad for cheerios or something called kellogs crunchy nut, now an ad for Hershey chocolste. And a new episode of king of queens, king of queens, king of queens. -------------198

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2012

And we type here type here type here. 250, 250, 250. ---------------------------------------------------------And we type we type. A discussion about a sandwich, it is pretty funny, pretty funny. ------------An ad for golden corall, an ad for a tooth paste. And we still need some more words here, some more words, some more words. An ad for a bank, an ad for mattresses. 200, 200, 200. And once more, a Toyota ad. And an ad for x-finity, whatever that is. An ad for a plumbing company, an ad for THE OFFICE. Typing, typing, typing. An ad for CAR TOYS- and it is back to the show, back to the show. --150 words, 150, 150. ----------------140 words, 140, 140. Doug and Carrie fighting, doug and deacon fighting over the sandwich, anyhoo, let us type here, type here. ------110 words, 110, 110. -----------An ad for for jcp, an ad for gain, an ad for Netflix and an ad for les schwab.

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Only 100, 100, 100. Another ad for a car, an ad for THE OFFICE. And only 80, 80, 80. The struggle with the words, ah, the struggle against the words. Still another ad and still another one and still yet another one. 50 words, fast and fast and fast and fast and fast. Some kind of talk about apri lshowers, about raining of savings, and some ad about how to make a certain kind of grilled sandwiches by using a drizzling of a salad dressing on the bread. 20 more words, 20, 20. ------------------------------------------------------------72 503, the words miraculously amassed when spellchecking. Ahhh, this was quite a torture, author here definitely had enough of typing and typing and typing. Too exhausting a job, anyhoo, the office is on, time to save this, save this, save this. 72544, 72 545. Save and save and save. -----------------april 11- yeah, no writing going on for so many days, for so many days. Hiatus is tough, you cannot really go back to the work world, you can sip pina coladas and you feel slightly whoozy. Pangs of a bad conscience, but more so, in her case, the future in the abyss, the thought about leaving writerdom for good, because, hey, this is not going anywhere, anyways, anyways. To write when nobody publishes you, it is like trying to be a singer if you have no voice, you cannot will talent, it is either there or it is not, you cannot be a ballerina if your movements are too stocky, you get the grift, get the grift. Yep, we can produce 2500 words, but this will never be a masterpiece, anymasterpiece. Her writing sucks, stinks, the like and the like and the like and the like. It was fun not to write, not to face her own abysmal wordings, her inarticulateness, her inability to produce even borderline coherence, snippets of cohesion, the like and the like and the like and the like. Author ponders, there will be a dance party right here in the library, in one hour, which is so weird, a library is a place for reflection, for deep thoughts, in short, for silence, a disco, isn’t that the polar 200

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2012

opposite, what is next, booze, booze. Anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here. Lots has happened since her last writings, her last typings, author had a life, for moments, for moments. Only to be back here at a keyboard, only to push down little squares, the letters are smack in the middle of each square, which is so very different from the keys where the letter is in the upper left or the upper right quadrant, author here ponders if she is using the right words, the right syntax, the right grammar. Today seems to be still summery, author is wearing a t-shirt, so is the person at the other computer, yep, it is officially summer, summer in july, summer in july. Author ponders, her words are totally nonsensically, her neck starts to hurt, ah, writing, ah, writing, ah, writing. Some sprinkles of spellcheck, the like and the like and the like. Author has watched endless hours of cooking shows, that is where allusions to SPRINKLEs come from, yay and yay and yay and yay. And we type here type here, good luck trying to sell this to anyagent, anypublisher anyreader- yay and we type here type here type here. Words that do not have cohesion that hover in the hinterlands of coherence, yay, yay, the like and the like and the like and the like. She should go back to drawing, to drawing, her drawings are superb, or something, and something, her writing is so bad, so very very very very very bad.. 73021, yay and yay and yay. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

today's date, march 12. today's wordcount, 73111. what a nice round number, ah, life is good, good. The sound of the reluctant printer, some silent yelps of a baby, actually she is talking “baby”, only her mother understands, next to author, a man reading something called LE GATINEAu, the library here at 12:18, the one in oakridge, the one where you can only be for one hour, well, at the computer station that is, at the computer station that is. Author has these writing spats, that are so

201

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very inconsistent, she does not churn out 2500 anymore, she spits out some words, that is it, that is it. Must be the nice-ish spring weather, the cherry blooms, the slowly-upon-us summer, the happiness that is not quite there, the sunniness, that is overwhelming, way too overwhelming. The blah of the good weather, the non-storminess, the heat that makes us each retreat into our own shell, author misuses the syntax, the grammar, butchers the words, that happens, happens. The person nest to author flips his card constantly, starts talking to the monitor, author should leave this place, could leave this place. Her back is starting to give out, a woman in a big Louis Vuitton bag, sailing by and sailing by. And the words accumulate, accumulate, reluctantly reluctantly reluctantly, reluctantly. 73325, 73325, 73325, 73325, 73325. ---------------------author sitting in the art school, fighting against her lightheadedness, her faintiness, ah, to have low blood pressure, low blood pressure. Always, always, always, always. People would kill to have low blood pressure, well, not if it involves passing out, left and right and center, left and right and center. Author here feels kind of at home in this place, it is kind of like cheers, where everyone knows your name, then again, there is no compensation for hanging out in this place, well, except for some piece of paper, ah, to be a certified artist, well, not exactly the same as a certified accountant, a certified plumber. And we type here type here, author answered an invite to linked-in, author ponders, what would be her job descript, something like “word-together-smushingprofessional, whatever that is, there should be the term “professional” at the end, funny, how doctors do not have to emphasize the professional, after all, they have seven billion potential clients, with writers, with poets, it is kinda different, kinda and kinda and kinda. “Executive poetry professional”, now that sounds nice, sure makes you qualify for a loan at the local bank, always can take out a mortgage with “poetry specialist”. And we type here type here type here type here, 202

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don’t really care, if it makes sense, sense, as long as we feed the words to the machine here, we should be fine just fine just fine enough. Syntax sucks, grammar sucks and word choice sucks, but, hey, keep on typing keep on typing, look like you know what you’re up to, that is all that counts all that counts. Look determined, or the like and the like and the like. Always, always, fake it till you make it, and if you don’t make it, you‘ll just die, just die just die just die. Which you will anyhoo, yay and yay and yay and yay. Author here feels like keeling over this keyboard, or anykeyboard for that matter, apparently it is last week of school, so the discussion of the two people next to her indicates, and we type here and type here, good to be in the art school with no term papers due, no drawings to draw, no paintings, ah, no paintings and no animations whatsoever, just the lousy word count here, the lousy one the lousy one. 73634, it is, it is, it is. 73 666, after spellcheck, after spellcheck. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Would be nice, if author could figure out how to put the page number on both odd and even pages, ah, to know which button to push, which button to push. Words, next to midnight, against the news from Rangoon, Burma, author ponders, whatever happened to Myanmar, is it now Burma again, or do both names co-exist? Now, some kind of business news, author ponders, if the talking heads on the telly are conducive to her writings, her writings. And the talking heads are all female, pretty good, pretty good. Anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. Now, Sarkozy, should he not take care of his newborn? And we type here type here type here type here. 73 797, the novel aka the non-novel motions forward, solemnly, sluggishly. But, hey, it is moving forwards, nonetheless nonetheless. Against its overarching plotlessness, against its deafening entropy, against, against, against. And we type here type here type here type here. 73 836, author feels like falling over the keyboard, ah, sleep, ah, sleep. Her writing is sluggish, on the 203

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telly, David Cameron, the first prime minister to visit Burma since the end of colonialism. And we type here type here type here type here. The words accumulate, not necessarily galloping after some meaning, along some random story arc. Now a formula-1 driver, author is seeing him for the second time this evening, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here. How about running to the 75 000 mark, nope, there is simply no energy left here, you have to be well-rested to write, have to be stricken by your new ideas, your words that flow, run, flood onto the keyboard, the writing in the night is just that, sleepy and sleepy and sleepy. Let us leave it at that- 73 983, it is it is it is it is. -----------------friday, the 13 th., and to think that we are out and about here, sitting in the oakridge library, somewhere near to noon, seeing the pink paper in the distance, the one that belongs to the paris in april display. The library here is pretty desolate, seems that others huddle under the blanket, against friday the thirteenth, friday the thirteenth. Obviously, this is no empirical study, but, hey, this place is definitely much more desolate than usual, much more, much more, much more. Yay, yay, superstition is alive and well, anyhoo, let us type here type here type here. Against the glare on the keyboard, against and against and against. Author saw this show where all the words were repeated, it did not sound nice, thus, maybe, just maybe, we should let go of the repetition as stylistic element, well, element. A woman stands way too close to author here, she left, left. There is this category in the book display here in the library that is called FAST READS, what does that even mean, what and what and what and what? Yeah, yeah, it is that time of the day, that time of the month, when incoherence is so very paramount, so very very very paramount. Author types, her novel is slowly coming to an end, maybe 27 000 words- and we are there, are there. Not that

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there is any plot whatsoever, these are ah so plotless times, ah so plotless times. The woman next to author is moving her mouse way too near to author, why is that why is that? Everything here is ah so annoying- anyhoo, let us type and type and type and type here. Author slept about three hours, this cannot be good, not that good not that good not that good not that good not that good. Yay, repetition as stylistic gimmick, this better be good better be good. And once more, better be good good good good good. Spellcheck, 4 now and 4 now and 4 now and 4 now. -----------------------------------------In the langara library, typing, ah, typing. Author parked her car in the Y, she has to leave at 3, because you are only allowed to park there for three hours and she is here for one hour already. Ah, to fashion your writings, your texts around parking allowances, that is how you should do it, yay and yay and yay. Poet under the gun, writer under the gun, just keep on typing and typing and atyping. She might make her way to the art school, feed her words to the machine, there and there and there. The words are different, in each and every environment, they slither and glide along the lines of whatever surrounds the lonely typer, the crazed-up writer, that is how it is, how it is, how it is. Author here used to write longhand and then type it up, she still has written manuscripts hovering away, they will one day be transcribed, they will see the light of day, once she is famed and fortunate, yay and yay and yay. Outside, the sun, that is why author is so bullshitty, so utterly utterly utterly bullshitty in her prose. Ah to be a writer, a gifted one, one that is blessed by the gods. A non-shitty writer, a non-rambler, a poet, a dramaturge, a gifted word-smith. Anything but this stupidity, this insanity, the like and the like and the like and the like. Downstairs, the artsy types here get ready for the year-end show, in the design place, the design show is under way. Yay and yay, it is the end of the school year, which means there will be art show galore. Ubc, sfu, the like and the like and the like and the like. Art shows, huh, art shows. Author should comment on that, 205

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she does not really feel like it, time to yawn and yawn and yawn and yawn and yawn. We have seventy four six four seven here, so long to eighty thousand, so very very very long. Like being halfway up the hill on Everest, that is how it is how it is. Her metaphors are abysmal, that happens when you don’t catch your z’s and watch bret michaels’ bio at three o’clock in the night. Or whatever his name was, some rock star, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here. Some more and some more and some more. Run-on sentences, against the bla of this library, there are other words to describe this place, poetic ones, descriptive ones, better better better ones. The words not chosen, they are always better always better. Has something to do with greener meadows, ah who cares, who cares who cares who cares. Author sprinkles too many ah’s and ooh’s into her text, it is just what you do when writing becomes a chore, a bloody bloody bloody chore. And 74 803, it is and it is and it is and it is and it is. Is. The words are slightly outta whack, goes with the frenzy of finals, with all of that with all of that. Yeah, some more words some more words, so very near to 75 000, just keep on typing typing. Will the words onto the keyboard, into the monitor, just keep on pecking at the squares, the squares, the squares, the squares, the squares, the squares. Author here tries to listen to the intrinsic rhythm of the words, the sing-sang, the melody, the harmony, the like and the like and the like and the like. She shuffles the words, reshuffles them, always hoping for the best for the best. She feels like barfing, she needs 77 words, someone sneezes, insanity here is so palpable so palpable so palpable. Only fifty, only fifty. Better stop this now, no need to die for literature, outside the sun is shining, flowers are blooming, children are singing, no time for writing, for typing, none, nada, zilch, zip. Yay, only seventeen, run, run, run, only eleven, eleven, and we are finally there and finally there. 75 000, it is and it is and it is and it is. ------------------------206

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2012

april 14- in the library in the art school, against the wall, just one other lowly art student way, way in the corner, a so very serious art student in glasses, long straight black hair, a white-black shawl. She is young, will she still do research about art once she is 87?. The computer says CONNOISSEUR, loudly, once. Author here types, she ponders, this is basically a typewriter for her, she does not produce lines and flecks anymore, she just fashions words and words and words and words. How to teach people to forget about drawing, that should be the mantra of this school. We write too much here, way too much, way too much. Author has her back to Granville Island, outside, the world is happening, happening, the sun, the tourists, the slight hustle-and-bustle, in here, silence, quiet words in the back, near the counter, the typing, the typing, the typing. Yay, yay, another novel, one of many, she will send it out send it out. And it will boomerang right back to her desk, that is how authors are these days, writers, writers, writers. For starters they have to be male, then, they have to have english names, because, hey, they are publishing English stuffi-muffi. And if it is a non-english name, then capitalize on the exotic, the other. You cannot be a run-of-the-mill creature, gotta stand out, distinguish yourself from the pack, the like and the like and the like and the like. Author has overslept, way too much and way too much and way too much. Her words splash against the monitor, a student with a grey sweater with stuff written on it, tons of books about art deco and architecture, author ponders, art deco has its renaissance, everyone writes on it, it used to be quite en vogue about thirty tears ago. Author ponders, her slight, reluctant characterizations of art historical trends de jour are so off, way too off, way too off. Just keep on typing, just wordcount and wordcount and wordcount and wordcount. And wordcount. Spellcheck a tad and spellcheck a tad, a tad. -------------------------------------------------------

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a walk at false creek, a bagel with rosemary and rocksalt, the stroll, the stroll, the stroll, the yachts near the water, hoisted up, people coloring them, painting them with toxicky smelly glumps, spray painting, the sun that is deafening, the woman who takes a picture of another woman she does not know, thank you and thank you and thank you. Once more, back in the art school, back in the library. The keyboard that stalls stalls, where each letter is a chore a chore, your fingers do not glide elegantly over this one, it is like wrestling, like weightlifting, weight pushing- anyhoo, keep on typing keep on typing. The writer in late, late whatever, late july late spring late autumn, everything goes with LATE. But, hey, it is mid-april here, the antithesis of romanticism, you cannot sing against the bleariness, the glariness, how can you can you? You need rotten weather for poetry, dreary skies, you need the hauntedness of a Sylvia Plath and the jumping-of-a-cliffelement. You need adventure, drama, not sugar, not spice, you need to be a guy, for god’s sakes. Thus are the findings of the writer here, the non-writer, thus and thus and thus. She ponders, the Indian candied salmon would be good, a tad too sweet, a tad to costly. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. Against the hefeweizen in the Granville brewery, the cloud like cotton candy, pale ale pale ale pale ale pale ale. author here ponders, good, that she has a knack, a propensity for amassing random, unrelated words together, her texts are like a cocktailparty where nobody knows anybody, where barfing is de rigueur de rigueur. What does this mean, well, something and something and something. Ah, get a dayjob- and any dayjob should do, writing is not what you’re god at good at. All your profs were wrong, so it seems, so it seems. Seems. Still going thru the motions, still typing, a-typing a-typing a- typing. And 75 695 it is, it is, on a sunny day in april, against the sun against the omnipresent sun. spellcheck spellcheck spellcheck and spellcheck. 75 732, 75 733. ----------------------------------------------------------------208

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2012

april 16- some spurts of non-writings, the back of the oakridge library, a so very small child with goldilocks, a woman: gotta say hi, do say hi, something and something and something and something. ESL-ers gossiping over a children's book, the latest in local soaps, who stays, who runs off with another, the like and the like and the like and the like. Author ponders, can she get away with painting with words, is she able to evoke a scene, with slight fragments, sketching-asketching-a-sketching. The more she stays unpublished, unlauded, unrecognized, the more the noise of hands non-clapping deafens, the more elusive her texts get, uncoordinated stabs at noncoherence, you know, the like and the like and the like and the like. The artist that never was, the one that sits in the library, where other housy wives await the ending of the day, supper, piers morgan, the like and the like and the like and the like. Author tried to go downtown, the train did not work, well, it was stopping and stalling, thus instead of downtown it is here, in the local mall the local mall. ah. Stories from the local mall, the like and the like and the like and the like. Nothing but bullshit for you here today, the woman at the coffeplace inside the grocerystore, asking, are you off today, off?- hey, I am a writer, employed at self, I can come and go whenever I feel like, no deadlines will throw me down, they will not propel me into the world either. The freedom to be invisible, ah, the like and the like and the like and the like. That is what we have poets for, to die in the gutter, to starve in the gutter. Or in a nice mansion, or in front of a plasma -tv, the like and the like and the like and the like. How do you dab impressionistic, how do you paint surrealistic, how do you practice the abstract, the modern, the post and the post and the post and the post-modern by singing your words by singing your words. The troubadour in the mall, dancing for dimes, singing for dimes- singing for dimes in the mall, from mall to mall to mall to mall to mall. And some more words , yuh, and some more words and some more words. Today her words are not doing it, but, as always, there is an accumulating, slowly ah so slowly accumulating

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wordcount- and 76190 it is, it is. Yesterday, vancouver sun run, btw, btw. The first page of the newspaper, exploding, ah, exploding. For some reason, author missed the whole event, this is what getting sleepier and older is like, yeah, yeah, yeah. Slither out of the loop, slither out, slither out. But, hey, at least we have our health here, a typewriter a-waiting, feed yer words to the machine, feed-em, feed-em. 76253, yay yay yay. She ponders if she should lower the daily wordcount, you know, like in short and precise, to the point, yeah, yeah, the like and the like and the like. Yeah. -------------------------------gotta have a snickers bar, in the library on april 17. tired, exhausted, the day has just begun. The writing day that is. Author's laptop at home is taking its last breaths, it did not even fire up, thus she had to weather the long trek downtown, getting off in yaletown, walking by the white-poodlea-walking crowd, finally, on the fifth floor, typing, typing, typing, typing. The sneezing faraway, loud and loud. How many words, how many many words. Someone clearing his throat, looking so very retired, with his wife by his side, the one who is there, is there. Author ponders, she is way too tired to elaborate, her writing chops, they do not chop very well, not today, not yet, ah, not yet. Ah to be a poet that runs after readers, how futile is that, how much, how much, how much. Does it help to chop up the words, to cut into sentences, artistically, ah, so artistically. Is today's readercrowd into short blurs of info, who knows, who knows? Author might as well type, the place here is called collaboration zone, so the sign says, so the sign says, so the sign says. Excuse me. Excuse me, the short librarian with invisible glasses, an insignificant bob, a sweater somewhere between purple and grey. Ah the library the library. Author ponders, she read a list of authors who penned their works in the atheneum, apparently a landmarkish library in boston, yay, yay, librarries are good places to produce work to be read, you are just producing new inventory for the place. You are next to greatness which fills you with equal amounts of awe and despair- and you just have two 210

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2012

hours each and every day, top pen and pen and pen. Masterpieces are, after all, penned not written, and definitely not typed, ah, typed. You need a lot of ah, ah, to make your blabla sound poetic, so it seems, so it seems, so it seems. In the distance, woman in blue and green, man in beige, other man in black and white, they are all putting their chairs together, sliding them over the floor, start groupworking, groupworking. Their general, a woman, exclaiming “so...” and then they all start to lower their voices and start their study groupish session, author has so enough of writing here, typing here. Today, she was up to closing the door, up to listen to the sounds of solitude, her typewriter did not work, she had to come here, into the world, the too too way too loud world. Full of cellphones and hello noise. Full of the crashing of pencil sharpeners, full of the hummingy singsong of all the machines in here, all the machines in here. And we type here and type here and type here. Seven six seven seven six, 76776, somewhere in wordcount no-man's-land, yay and yay and yay and yay. 214 pages, type just 90 pages more, and you're done, you're done. The first book of the year, this better be good and better be good. One book per season, 4 books per year, 40 books in ten years. And then we die and then we die, die. Spellcheck, a tad and a tad and a tad and a tad. ------------april 18- once more in the library, outside overcast, a bird flying by, author is here, here again, to jot down her notes, notes. Fast- somehow fast, somehow fast. A young person in a tailored grey overcoat, jumping against the windows, so it seems so it seems. There are better ways to describe this, but, hey, just gotta jot down words and words and words and words. The keyboard, slightly stalling slightly stalling slightly stalling slightly stalling slightly stalling. -----------------------------------------

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another rejection, this time by one of the international editors at Washington square magazine, to be precise, there are two rejectors, but author here just gathered the info abut one of them, a young lad, who is introduced on a you tube video without sound, one that gathered 25 views, he is barely sixteen, has a just as striped dull red slash dull beige sweater as the woman who introduces him, a very young kid bearing, however, all that said, he is very very good with words, he teaches at nyu, and is very clear about what he thinks about structure (in his syllabus), he writes in another article about a poet who should or should not or could use certain elements of sylvia plath’s styple. Yep, he seems very well-versed and very articulate, author ponders, these are the people whom she has to impress, ultimately, the ones who can poke holes into her too flat artistry, easily and easily and easily and easily and easily. Out of the corner of their eyes, but, hey, just gotta try and do this and do this. Accumulate the words, there will be bad words and good words, just type on and type on and type on, the poem she submitted was pretty good, but given that the rejectors have read tons of poems in the same vein, it becomes clear why there is no place for a poem called SUNDAY IN NEW YORK in a new york based magazine that is published by the new york u- press, for them it is all an old hat, an old hat, déjà vu and dej vu and déjà vu. Author here tries to rationalize da rjektionne, what else is there to do there to do. just gather yourself up (if there is a term like that). Just dust yourself up- the like the like, back on to the horse, why not why not why not why not. And on with the day on with the day. Seven seven one nine nine, seven seven one nine nine. ------------------------------------------------------------------------april 19- in the library, typing a-typing. Yeah, yeah, this whole building only to house a type writer, a typing machine, a typing machine. Some one sneezes in the back, someone sighs. Author ponders, what to write, what and what and what and what. And once more, another sneeze. Author here should have this machine for two hours straight, if she manages to catch the DO YOU WANT 212

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2012

TO BOOK THIS STATION FOR ANOTHER 60 MINUTES caption. She sometimes does, sometimes does not. The reason is that author stares down stoically at the keyboard, she does not notice what is happening on the monitor, especially because the monitor and the keyboard are so much apart at this station, it is basically a so very big table with slots on top and the monitors in the slots, author ponders, she first thought that this is one big table with four computer stations, turns out (after more examination) that these are four separate tables smushed together, anyhoo, let us just type here and type here and type here. The person at the other station clears his throat, now he coughs twice, the other person next to her has a funny, ah so very funny profile. Like a mix between a rhino and a frog, but in a good way, if there ever is a good way to resemble a frog or a rhino. Author amasses words, people giggle, the throat clearer clears again, the frog slash rhino clears his nose. See, and you thought there is nothing to write about, nah, far from it, just come down to the library, just type and type and type and type. There is enough entertainment for you here, and we clear our throat here, again and again and again. The slow day, the slow day, wading knee deep in over cast and bla, people have too loud i-pods, stop the music ah stop the music. Author is feeling hungry but, hey, can't leave this place, gotta write gotta write. If you book it you are automatically chained to this place, not literally, that is, but you have to stay here near to your station hovering hovering. Or you can ask people to guard your stuff which is kinda debatable how do you decipher the ethical make-up of your neighbor, you don't and you don't and you don't. Author here is entangled in her weird and bizarre choice of words, washington square mag rejected her poem, she will never ever make it in the world of world lit, never ever ever. A pencil sharpener sings, twice, and we type here and type here and type here. Against pangs of hunger against the roaring of the sharpener, against and against and against. Against her innate, inane and ah so insane incompetence, yeah, yeah, english not da first language, as if that has ever stopped anyone, a

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nabokov does not need a first language, a tolstoy, the like and the like and the like and the like. Author ponders, what point does she actually want to make, and are points really there for the making, a cough, a clap, the like and the like and the like. And the floor resonates from all the walking of, well, library patrons, author ponders, this is not the noise of a pencil sharpener, seems to be the sound of the micro fiche machine. Anyhoo, let us type here and type here and type here and type here. 77855, left shoulder tingling a-tingling, a-tingling, a-tingeling. She ponders, it is her right shoulder, so this is poetic license, this is where fiction meets non-fiction, the like and the like and the like and the like. She hammers at the keyboard, virtuously, as if it were a piano, piano. She repeats words at random, author here is pretty tired, she did a trek to north van, and we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. Following the sing sang of the words, ever so slightly ever so slowly. -----------------------------in the art school, there will be a talk, but, hey, it is 4:09, the talk will start at seven. Author ponders, she does not have 3 hours of writing in her, not 3 hours of material. What is there to describe here, the ocean factory, some coughing, the key board that wrestles with the writer. You cannot pen master pieces if you have to push down each and every letter with such vehemence, how can you can you how can you? Author is not quite sure if her grammar is off, there are books here, Chicago Manual, or style something, MAA books, the like, ah, the like and the like. Author ponders, if she was an Irish writer, none of these manuals would hold any merit, thus, just do what ever you feel like, throw the words against the machine, some will stick and some won’t. And we type here type here. This keyboard is really filthy, author tries not to look at the more questionable letters. Steam from the ocean factory- and we type here type here type here.

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2012

april 20- in the oakridge library, typing, eh, writing under the gun, under the gun. The keyboard is sitting diagonally, leaning towards the woman with too much perfume, too much make-up and a little bit too much of everything, she has nice purple and black and white stuff on, though, there is a woman in a limony yellow blazer and a man with a weird face, these are the other computer stationeers, and we type, fast and fast and fast and fast. Should have been a highly praised writer, by now and by now and by now and by now. Instead, the lingering in obscurity, ah, so that is why the Pulitzer board could not decide on a fiction candidate this year, what with all the substandard stuffi-muffi, that gets churned out churned out. How can you not publish this, woman next to author watches donny osborne on you tube- pulease. And we type here and type here and type here and type here, some more and some more and some more. Today, sunshine, butterflies, lolllipops, the like and the like and the like and the like. The mall library is happening, slightly disinfected, slightly sterile. The antithesis to the downtown library, but we can write about that some other time some other time. Suburbia, non-suburbia, who cares who cares who cares. Let worlds collide, they are not colliding enough, we all live and we all die in our own bubble, our own bubble. Author here can hardly move, the trek thru the rain did her in, did her in, the journey to north van, the coming home in the rain. The talk in the auditorium, tiny houses, pretty great pretty great pretty great. --------------------------------ok, maybe some more words, some more and some more. Woman in a mix 'tween purple and red, woman in total grey total grey. Woman next to author laughs out loud, that is nice, she still though whiffs out this overpowering over arching, deafening odor of stale powder, it seems to become

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more and more, by the minute by the second. A book cart, a man in a red and black anorak. Anyhoo, let us type here type here type her type here. Nice weather today, summery, spring-like. Nice and nice and nice and nice. Author was rummaging through her online notes, about nyc about nyc, 4 years ago, it was definitely so much nicer than the miserable vancouver day, the day before the day before. But, hey, it is nice and lollipoppy now, what else do you need, what else do you want. Maybe some more words, ah some more words. To run this text forward, to march this text forward. And 78546 we have here we have here and we have here. ----------------------------------april 21- against the sugary Saturday, against the two birds in the sky, against the shitty keyboard in the art school library, against, against. She is slithering so close to 80 000 words, she is pondering, will this be her grande break-through novel, the debut, the final debut, the over night success after a lifetime of wordslinging. And is that what she wants, isn’t obscurity grande, so much more, so very so very. And is it really the in-thing, to take sentences and hack them apart, at random, at random, at random. To mirror our times, authors, writers poets, playwrights, they used that excuse for shitty penmanship, for ages, all thru the ages. And, hey, is it penwomanship or penmanship, who knows and who knows and who knows. Yesterday, the foundation show opened in the art school, author should waltz thru it, this is what she did ten years ago, and that really was the best foundation show ever. No other foundation show, nowhere, nowhere, can even get close, close. Outside the green bushes against the ocean factory, against the sleepy blue sky, yuh, yuh. Somehow it looks dull and dull and dull and dull. The blue of the sky does not go with the colour of the greenery, the light of the sky isn’t clear enough, not clear enough. This filthy keyboard here makes you barf, just avoid looking at the undefinable specks, just type forward, just type and type and type and type. 216

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2012

still sitting here in this too desolate, way too chilly library, feeding words to the machine, feeding words to the machine. Cars are driving by, slowly, a blue one, wait, a grey-silvery one. Now a white one, and each time they drive by, one can see the red one parked under the green parking sign, yep, a green one, all the parking signs on Granville Island are grassy fluorescenty green with a white round thingie in them and a big black P. Author ponders, writing THINGIE instead of CIRCLE, yay, yay, that will put her smack into the poets hall o’fame. Anyhoo, keep on typing atyping. 78892, 78892. You should easily make it to 80 thou, yeah, yeah, why not why not why not. The sugary mountain of words, author ponders, she was kind of thinking about thomas mann, her word associations flow in and out of the mind, relentlessly, relentlessly. She does not need to be precise, she is at that point in her writing career where nonsensical will do, should do. So what if we are unpublished here, who cares and who cares and who cares. More time to yourself, no interviews in stupidity, no trying out dresses to wear at readings. Just typing and typing and typing, just the producing of this shit, just hurling it into cyberspace, ah cyberspace. And we type here and type here and type here and type here, some more and some more and some more. Author ponders, what do the librarians think about the woman who hammers away at the keyboard, on a saturday, ah, who cares and who cares and who cares and who cares. Spellcheck this, save and save a-save. Only a thousand more, only a thousand more. ---------------------------------------------------------------And some more words, fast and fast and fast. Might as well make it to eighty thousand, even though there is nothing going on here, in her room of her own her room of her own. Author here is using her so very new laptop the one that is untested, that has this so very weird keyboard, that

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does not lend itself to writing superior words, it just does not does not. The old computer broke down, thus author here has to do with the new keyboard and with the new interface to boot. Change is not good for artistry, you lose continuum, you lose your ability to work with your tools and it does not make any difference if it is a pen or a typewriter. The work will suffer suffer. On the telly, the news, bbc international, outside greenery, still daylight daylight daylight. Author should go for a walk, she needs a tad more movement, motion and motion and motion. We have 79 240, isn’t that enough, enough? Seems that this keyboard is everything but ergonomic, her right middle finger is starting to hurt, after only one paragraph, only one only one. A plane crash in Islamabad, a train crash in Amsterdam. Nothing new nothing good. War news, death, destruction, destruction. -------------------------------79 291, 72 293. Now French elections, now Olympics, now libiya gaddafi trial. Author would rather comment on, write about nice stuff, you know lifestyle stuffi-muffi. 79 316, 79 319. ---------------------In the coffee shop on arbutus, she had a hot chocolate with whipped no drizzle, this is the first outing for the new laptop, the inaugural trek, yeah yeah. The wifi does not work, apparently she has to ask the person at the counter, the one that used to work in the starbucks on 41st, the one whose mom took a pic of him on his first day of work. Anyhoo, we type here type here type here, the hot chocolate is weighing author down, pressing against her lungs, making her feel woozy and nauseated, all at the same time, all at the same time. Door opens, someone rushes in, short, dark, wiry. Author just sees stuff here out of the corner of her eyes, the rush up and down arbutus, pretty fast, pretty furious, for a sleepy Saturday here in april, with overcast not quite not quite- with 218

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elevator music deafening ah deafening. Poetry does not really happen here, it can’t can’t, the keyboard is way too bizarre, so is the mouse pad, it has all these dots in it, ah, change is tough tough. Author’s old laptop, it made her write better stuff, so much better stuff. She ponders, if push comes to stuff, her older words aint published yet, neither is her new stuff. She misused the AINT, ain’t is for third person singular, if you use slangishy stuff, use it right, yeah and yeah and yeah. And the cars rushing up- rushing down. Fast and fast and fast and fast. Two young lads in black, tshirted, summer coming to Vancouver, reluctantly reluctantly. The beat on the overhead, author is sitting under the loudspeaker, she should change her place, fast and fast and fast and fast. Languishing singing, a woman squeeking, stretching her voice, kinda jazzy, a tad and a tad and a tad. Music that goes with coffee with peppermint tea with hot cocoa, music that beats against a sleepy Saturday afternoon in a too chilly coffeehouse- and once more the longing yelp of the woman, the singer, the songstress. Author ponders, she could print this out, make her way to the other coffeeshop, the one on the corner of Trafalgar, she could read this to the hungry crowds, wait for the clapping- they are nice and polite there, they would clap for everything and anything. She could even read from her laptop, into a mike, she is wearing black, yay yay- if she was another person, a gutsy one, she would woo the open-mic crowd, yay and yay and yay and yay. Milk bottle people come in, strong arming the milk carts, the GFS truck outside ah outside. Author ponders, her ahs do not really make sense here, they just fill up the page, fill and fill and fill and fill. 79 778, not bad not bad not bad. Still the singer whining, longing- the music ebbs ou,t the two milk carton persons, into the truck into the truck. Two women in ponytails, blue and orange, the like and the like and the like and the like. A harmonica- beats and beats and beats and beats. Some weird instrument coughing, coughing. -----------------------219

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2012

The bus, rainforest noises, people talking in the back. Some more jungle noises, hiccuppy hiccuppy. It is more like monks meeting rainforest, shrill peeps, a beige car down arbutus, fast and fast. And we have how many here, how many, how many. 79 890, march forward and forward. ------------------------------------Time to eat a sticky madeleine, author tries not to touch the so very brand new keyboard with her sticky right index finger, she only uses the middle fingers for typing a-typing. The music is utterly annoying, there is a pretty nicely designed paper on the pinboard above author, SWYNG BYNG, lord byng being a local high school, you can say against this city what you want but it is flustered with all kinds of high schools, all in utter proximity in utter proximity. And still another madeleine another madeleine another madeleine. 79 990, ten more ah ten more ah ten more. One. . .. and we are there there. 80 000 words, in spring and spring and spring. ------------------------------april 22- and once more in the coffee shop on arbutus, against the hectic Sunday morn’, against hell’s angels and Asian lady’s talking, against, against. Languid, fast, fast, fast. Against the pike place for moments, against the rest of the banana loaf, against the trumpet serenade on the overhead, a woman singing like talking, sounding resolute so resolute, yeah, yeah, making sense of this all of this all. The poet in the morning, typing, a-typing, a-typingish.. ---------This might not really be the right place to pen slash type your Sunday morning masterpiece, not the right time and not the right venue, it never is never is. We need a slightly more bohemian place a slightly less bohemian place, the roar of the coffee grindingish machine in the back certainly does

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not help, author has to be in other places, she has to stand up to let the floor be swept, has to do this, that and the other. She is sitting in the wrong place, the wrong seat, the SWYNG BYNG paper is still in its place, the Sunday morning, Sunday morning. We have 200 after 80 000- and nothing works here nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing. Sunday morning writing, kind of does not work, never works, ah, never works. Her obscene absolutes, reluctant and reluctant and reluctant. ------------------fast words fast words in the dunbar library, after a long trek en pied, fast so fast, before the library shuts down for the day for the day. Well, at least we have 80 340 here, yay and yay and yay and yay. This is how lit is fashioned here, against the sun the dust of the street, the slow pangs of restlessness, tiredness, exhaustion exhaustion. 80371, 80372, 80373. -------------Pondering whether this is the right place to write, seems pretty good, the new subway in the niceish stripmall on arbutus, ah, sitting here with a tea that has a tad too much of a nonchalant whiff of perfume, hey, we said, green tea, but not that much jasmine, not that much of jasmine. Otherwise, this is the perfect place, a salad eating serious student, author just pretends to write her dissertation, the one that still needs 20 000 words, 20 000, 20 000. It is chilly fresh in here, there are two humongous fans hanging from the ceiling, there is the reflection of the round light above, in the glossiness of the new laptop, there is the strong beat from the music, hey, if you cannot pen a masterpiece here, you cannot do it anywhere, ah, anywhere. The deafening sweetness of the cookie, macadamia, white chocolate, ah, you can hear the arteries a-clogging, a-clogging, ah, nevermind, just type on and type on and type on and type on and type on. 221 Something is missing

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here, sprigs of dislocation, author is too much, way too much rooted in here, you have to board a jet-plane, you have to make it to schipohl, if you wanna write, even if you only wanna type. You need slight hauntedness, you need certain discomforts, you need to be wrapped in by loneliness, strangeness, bizarreness. How else can you write the right words, the ones that quiver ever so slightly, that throw down poeticness, forcefully, forcefully. The singer on the loudspeaker is pretty good, some kind of kate perry, actually it is her, anyhoo, let us march this forward march this forward. The words that are not good enough, always good enough, yeah, yeah,those ones, ah, those ones. THIS IS THE PART OF ME, author likes the song hates the music video. The arbutus bus, drives by, drives by. Wow, once more, the GFS truck, same one like yesterday, the routine of loading down milk cartons when the coffee shop a-closes, seems, you do not need to roam in Brooklyn or/and Amsterdam, you might as well write here in this place, there is so much to see, so much to observe, so much, so very very very very much. 80 613, ah, well, we might even make it to 100 000, by the end of april, the end of april. Before mayflowers start their bloom, though, this year they are already here, already here. Author really likes the funny slot in the coffee mug, you can close the top, slide it close, so very nice, so very so very. There is some kind of fitness pledge here, a card with a woman in a pink-white leotard, apparently they want you to pledge to lose weight and get fit and snarf down a lotta subway sandwiches. And we type on type on type on. Against the late afternoon, the chilliness, the cars on arbutus, the GFS aka gordon food service truck. The music, fast and fast, the words follow, fast and fast, and 80 749, it is it is. --------------------------------------------------------

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Once more, some more words some more words. On the telly, sports, sports. Some soccer some golf. Author feeds her words to the machine, as fast as she possibly can, as fast as she possibly can. Sitting on a couch, not that good for writing for writing. There is nothing to describe here except for the constantly changing images on the telly. Evening not quite here, another walk through the fresh air, to make you chose the right words, authomatically, automatically. 80 904. 80 906. --------------------------------------april 23- in the art school library, in the seat against the wall, librarians talking in the room next to author, words splash against the machine, fast and fast and fast. Hardly any students here, school is out, which means that all these typing machines are there for the taking, for the taking. Pen your master piece, fast and furious, fast and furious. -------------------------------------------------------------------she feels kinda tired, the hardly-any-sleep state is pretty trying, well, at least she did her walk by false creek, we have to lose 30 pounds here, might as well work on this, work on this. Author has only one hour left, her parking will expire, or she will move her car, yeah, yeah, but first some typing, some typing. There is not much inspiration for writing here except for the conversation in the adjacent room, about photographs and curating and sauvie island. Very serious, very focused. Not like the la-di-da of her writing here, her typing here. Somebody is eating chips or opening a chocolate bar, some noise like that and some noise like that. 81089, 81092. --------------------------------------------------------------while basically falling asleep- typing typing. Author ponders, her sentence is kind of mulled up, wishy-washy, clarity does not live here anymore, the like and the like and the like and the like. The

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title of this will probably be THE WRITER, not because it is a great choice, but more so because it is what the header says and author printed the first 50 pages out to send it out send it out. That is the kind of author she is, serendipity rules, yay and yay and yay and yay. We have 81177 here, exhaustion is so palpable, so very very palpable. Hiccups of sleep, only for moments, for moments. The library here is slowly happening, while the ocean factory says hello, while her days are so very very interchangeable. While whining becomes an artform in itself, yeah, yeah, while the words make no sense, not yet and not yet and not yet and not yet. Yeah, yeah, 81 251, 81 253. Time to pass out, to collapse against the grey floor with the dots therein, ah, why not and why not and why not and why not. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Seven and fourteen in the afternoon, the laptop balancing on the stone-balustrade near the window, the GFS truck coming and leaving, a yellow cab a-waiting in the distance. Arbutus in its afterwork-a-day-claws, whatever that means, whatever and whatever. Lots of cars, there are words out there to recreate that poetically, a 16-Bus, and still so many more cars so many more cars, orderly and up and down, orderly and up and down. The vocal group of all these women disbands, all in yoga attire, all mainly black-clad. A group of fifteen, they started their war, strategized, and now the sound of the trumpet, the coffee grinder, one ugly man still writing. The very pretty starbucks woman, cleaning up, a-cleaning up. Author ponders, is this her masterpiece, can you really pen a masterpiece if you shove your new black laptop into a gap bag and skedaddle to the local coffeeshop and start typing while a woman in a black leotard jogs by, black pony-tail, her sweater a round her hips, while the quasi-jazz, well, quasi- jazzes. Remnances of the too sweet hot chocolate, the beebop on the overhead, her words, stale and tired, slightly dull, so slightly dull. Author is

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artistically disheveled, artistically overweight, too, next to morbidly obese, she dozed off on the couch while watching Seinfeld, this is not enough fodder for these her words, ah, these her words. Her knee is slightly injured, way too many steps over the last two days, another jogger down arbutus, could be the same that made it up the street some moments ago, some moments ago. Starbucks lady sprinkles everything with mists from a blue bottle, author still has to type here type here type here type here. Louis Armstrong on the loudspeaker. So it seems, so it seems, something about MY IMAGINATION, still so many cars so many many many cars. Now the song morphs into serenading a potential lover, so easily, so easily. The right trumpet slash sax-arrangement can do that do that do that. I don’t know why I love you but I do, insights from times long ago, a red fiat, up arbutus, up arbutus. 81 631, easily easily easily easily easily. ---------------------------------------Back on the green couch, while the telly sings, Toyota spring sale, pepsi, chipotle-ish chicken, the coffee shop threw her out, closing time, the like and the like and the like. The closing time in a tea store, the closing time in a coffee shop, the poet has to plump herself onto the couch, her words cascade prosaically, this is how poetry dies, a-dies. And let us type here type here, the grocery store was out of greek yoghurt, ah, how can we write and write and write and write. You need the right ingredients in your body to spit out exacting words, if something is a-miss, your words just dump themselves into the abyss. Yay, yay, drama and drama. 81 762, 81 763. Forward and forward and forward and forward. Some weird film, but good clothes, a nice dress, ah well and ah well and ah well. It is gossip girl, how coincidental, that was exactly how it sounded, how it sounded, how it sounded. 81 815, ah well and ah well and ah well and ah well. -------------------------------------

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april 24- nice, nice. In the central library, next to a woman playing an elaborate game, on the third floor, third floor. The monitor is totally askew, there is a whiff here, of cigarette qualms, it is more distinguishable if you lean forward, author tries to sit as straight as she possibly can, in order to not be overwhelmed, in order to be underwhelmed. This day, she should sit here all day straight, chained to the computer, chained to the machine. Better than walking into the coach store and asking the nice lady with pink shawl, are you british? salesladies, ah, they hear it all, all day long, all the lunatics coming off the street, asking bizarro questions, especially here in downtown, dislocated tourists, an oxymoron, sic, and we write and write and write and write. Ah, contort the words, cut off sentences mid-air, quivering, that oughta work, oughta work. All of brooklyn, full of wordslingers that do the same, whatever makes you think you will make it in lit country, what are your credentials, ah, credentials. Well, let me tell you, I have an artist certificate, I brushed my teeth, I manage to wear shoes of the same kind. What more do you want, hey, what more, what more. And we type here type here type here and type here. The library loudspeaker, the woman in blue and the man in yellow, flirting, ah, a-flirting. Woman next to author here scratches her arm, please, don’t have fleas, ah, fleas. And we type here. klimper at the keyboard, for moments, ah, moments. The sound of something childlike, someone childlike. Though she must be a hundred years old, that is the downtown library, for you for you for you for you. The morning of a writer, please don't scratch, the woman in the starbucks at the edge of the grocery store: ARE YOU WORKING TODAY, well, are you are you. Author mumbled something at the corner of yes and no, hey, I am a writer here, an author, a singing, a-singing, poet ah poet. Minstrel, troubadour and did you know that the female form of troubadour is trobarix. Yeah, yeah, dear reader, you should know, should really know, a-know. And we are losing it here. That happens, that happens. Make sure you just go to the edge of the abyss. Don't even look down, don’t and don’t and don’t. Dance

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away, sing your songs to the machine, a writer, ah, a writer. And we have eight two two one one, not bad and not bad and not bad and not bad. Haunted by the number of the words, yay and yay. Why not why not. Had a peppermint tea and a cherry pie in the starbucks on west georgia, where hot shots, congregate, ah, congregate. Not really, but it has this otherworldly aura and what is a hot shot anyways, how does she differ from a coldshot? We type, yeah yeah, we type and type and type and type. A man in a blue everything, next to author, he looks non-smelly, though, looks can be deceiving, ah, deceiving. Outside, the posters on the performancy place, in here, a yellow man yawning, author just types types. And the accurate, so very correct term would be “man in yellow shirt”, not “yellow man”, but, hey, we just type here type here, meaning be blasted, blasted. First the pecking at the keys, than coherence, fledgling reluctantly, after, after. Ah to hack at the language, consistently, consistently. Some spellcheck, some save and some save and some save, some save. Foreign language, the woman says in the back, flecks of words, sentences in half, the chairs rumble, ah, rumble. This library at ten, book carts yelping, we write or type or write. Consistently, fanatically, yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah. -----------------------outside, drizzly weather or what looks like dizzly, how to spell overcast, one word, two words, in here, the boredom that is a library, the suspendedness, the sick coughing, all these people here, like termites, like termites. The third floor, ah, well, author feels like running away from here. Like cocooning, like ostriching, on some green sofa somewhere, with the door closed, shut, shut. Room of one's own, does not make a writer, now, does it does it? She should paint sculpture around, filmmake, what is she doing here, hacking away at some weird bizarre machine, while the day marches forward, fast so fast. There will be no strong colorful paintings 3 meters by 2, plastered all over the world, shipped from gallery to gallery. And the animations, all the films, you can 227

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2012

distribute them easily, that is what vimeo is for, you tube is for, anyhoo, we don't care here, we type and we type and we type and we type, whether in amsterdam whether in nyc, so many places, in this world in this world. James salter on charlie rose, yeh, reading, yuh, writing. And the book cart rolls in the distant distance, downstairs downstairs. Heaping on some more words, we have 82 739, a spoken word event, downstairs, downstairs. Stop, spellcheck, spekllcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck. ----------------------two and a half pages of writing, one day's work, ah, one day's work. Look at the bright side, it would have taken much more time, in another world, another time, yay and yay and yay and yay. Not quite sure what point I wanna make, the sounds from the i-pod of the overaged person next to author, deafening, so very very a-deafening, the language just rusts away, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow. --------------------april 25- the computer did not work in the morning, somehow author here could not download the work from the day before, ah, major spoiler alert (if there is a word like that), major panic, the drive down to the artschool, while pouring rain was, well, pouring down, all over the wind shield, the overprized parking in this place, luckily, yesterday’s words could be easily retrieved in this machine here in the library, library. Somehow, all the different systems all over town are not necessarily compatible, author was pretty miffed, pretty alerted, her writings, her words, her texts, the day before, they seemed to be pretty good, you always think that the work lost was extra good, yeah, yeah, hindsight, hindsight, glorifying hindsight. Retrospect gilds everything, so it seems, so it seems. 228

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2012

The coffee shop in the morning, on arbutus, so much to describe, author does not have a waterproof case for the new laptop thus she merely just let everything sink in, looked around, rushed home to type up her observations and then the computer did not retrieve yesterday’s words and everything went completely bonkers. Ah, the life of a writer. Petty, ah so petty concerns. This is not her dissertation, these are not golden words that nobody thought of before, her artistry is not that unique, not and not and not and not. Her delusion of grandeur, her delusion of grandeur. The school of thought that if you believe in yourself, ah, let it go and let it go and let it go and let it go. A woman at the light tables in the back, with a hot pink apple computer, a diminutive one, doing her work, collaging a poster together, saying EMILY, seriously, seriously. Author here hurls her words at the computer, she used to be a visual artist, now she is a writerly artist- and if push comes to shove, the term HOUSEWIFE is more accurate, yay and yay and yay and yay. The getto of housewifery, ah, so slight, ah so slight. Her poetry, sucky and sucky and sucky. And the ubiquitous WE TYPE and WE TYPE and WE TYPE. 83 108, 83 109, 83 110, 83 111. A walk through the downpouring gust, to the market, maybe, some chocolate, some chamomile tea, poet in the rain, poet in the rain. The postrermaking woman, sniffly, twice, ah twice, ah twice and twice. --------------------------------------------------just some more words, fast, fast. Then your day’s work is done here, done here. You did your poetry your prose, then it is time to do other stuff, cleaning, cooking, driving around, the like and the like and the like. What is usually referred to as errands, writing is an errand, reading is an errand. The woman in red, still scanning and scanning and scanning. Someone sneezes, librarians gossip, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. A machine outside, a crane, a concrete mixer, a chain saw.

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Something powerful and loud, the typing machine, silently, quickly, fast and fast and fast and fast. These tools ah these tools. And we type here type here, she is regaining the strength to fall back into the rhythm the rhythm the rhythm. Author read the interview in the paris review, james salter stating, a writer needs travel, shorthand for a poet needs motion, author here thinks too much about the persona of a writer, these days, these days, these days. The scanning woman deduces stuff from the visuals on the monitor, she tweaks the ornate drawing with the click of a mouse, yep, that is artistry for you, these days and these days and these days. The chainsawy concrete mixer roars in the back, the words splash against the monitor, we are arguably going insane here, ever so slightly, ever so dramatically. 83 383, 83 383. 83 383. 83 383. The foundation show is still on, go and watch, go a-watch. -----------------------------------------------------------------------some funny, but trivial fact, the weather in Vancouver is the same as the weather in Amsterdam, today on april 25. Well, obviously, Amsterdam is in a different time zone, it is night there now, whereas it is daytime here, author ponders, she still wants to name this text HERE OR AMSTERDAM, it sounds kinda catchy, she has to draw some more comparisons between here and Amsterdam, somehow this sounds like a borderline-ish undertaking, borderline insane, maybe more like utterly insane, anyhoo, just type and type and type some more. The letters kind of smush together, forcefully, forcefully. She typed up two pages already. That should do, could do. For nowfor now-4 NOw. -------------------------------------------------------once again, in the oakridge library, outside rain, in here, deafening chilliness, deafening and chilly do not necessarily walk together, ah, let us call it artsy, for moments, ah, moments. Author here is 230

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scrambling up all the stylistic devices she uses, it does not really work, not that good, not good enough. She tries to fashion a good-enough query letter while she is driving thru the city, while she is making her way from vancouver to burnaby and back, she is way too absorbed with her writing, she spits it out when she wakes up in the morning, like coughing up blood, maybe, a tad more sanity would be good, would be good, should be good. Writing, ah, writing, she constantly renames this text, it has all these different shapes and forms, she puts her stuff on scribd, under different names, the novel that goes incognito. The day marches forward, this library is a tad different from the library in the art school, a tad and a tad and a tad and a tad. Author could describe all the why's and how's, but, if push comes to shove, she is way more concerned with the logistics of her writings, the vancouver public library uses OPEN OFFICE, author is worried that she will not be able to retrieve this once she is at home, her new laptop has word 2010 and only for one month, besides it does not have a waterproof casing, so, evrything and anything is falling apart here, apart here. No readings for you, no mentioning in literary circles, only obscurity, only obscurity. The poet that isn't the poet that cannot. The imperfect one, the obsolete one. Yeah, yeah, just like the forgotten blogger, the lost animator, the non-existent painter. The art student that couldn't and couldn't and couldn't and can't. The one that yelps around and never ever gets from point A to point B. Just stay in point A, we will all die, anyways, anyways. Life's a bitch and then you die, yeah, yeah, philosophy in the rain, philosophy in a nutshell. Woman next to author types, no master pieces, though, only e-mail e-mail. If we would take all the text messages, the face-book words, the like and the like and put it together, there would be war and peaces a billion times over, if you get my drift, my grift. Author ponders if she should be a tad more coherent, nah, take from my words whatever you feel like, whatever, whatever, whatever. That is why I am a non-scholar, the words merely scratch the surface, the open to interpretation write-ups, ad nauseum ad nauseum.

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Yay, yay, we type here and type here and type here and type here. Notice how your writing becomes lesser when you are in the mall, notice how it automatically becomes better once you are in a more serious more scholarly environment. The author as ongoing project, it can happen can happen. And we type here type here, slight wordcount: 84 070 it is, it is, it is, it is, it is, it is. ----------------------------4:36, back in the art school, type fast, type fast type fast. There will be a talk here at seven, some sculptor talking ‘bout his work. Author here might as well stay put and wait, maybe the novel here will be finished, she hardly showers these days, birds nest in her hair, rolling outta bed and starting to type- that is our life our life. Once this is finished, the sun will come out, birds will sing, once this insanity is over, life will be good good, normalcy will shine, ah shine. Author sure is not able to type up coherent and succinct mini-treatises, everything in her writing mushes together, but, hey, we can roam thru the world unwashed, with a melancholical expression, that should do it, after all who really knows how to march all these words in perfect harmony, in unison, the like and the like and the like and the like. Author ponders, she should apply to write for some local newspaper, something like the kits coffee news, she should start a zine, something anything. There are ways to further your writingish career, there always are there always are. She roamed thru the foundation show in the art school, and now this place here is closing up, closing up. 85242 it is it is. ------------------------------------------------------------april 26- in the oakridge library again, after a fresh coffee, a fresh banana loaf-slice, a fresh everything. Fresh air, rain in the air as water vapor, drizzly non-drizzle, she walks like a, well, let's see, much younger person, upright, purposeful, forceful. The foodcourt was happening, yeah, yeah, that is the place to be- and you thought that yelp does not do foodcourt reviews. Au contraire, my 232

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friend, you can sit in front of your computer and rummage thru 66 reviews for one dunkin donuts, ah fun and fun and fun. Author finds a million silly ways to keep herself occupied these days, and she lives to tell 'bout it. Ah, the library here the library and the library. This so very sheltered enclave, a child talks in the back of the kid section, gets ever more exited with what she or he has to say. AUTHOR PONDERS, CHIDREN SOUND ALL THE SAME, A BIG SIGN ON THE COLUMN TO HER RIGHT SAYS: “contest”. THE LIBRARIAN AND HER BOOKCART, SHE IS ALL BABYBLUE TAILORED JACKET, ALL AND ALL AND ALL and all. EVEN HER HAIR HAS AN UPSWEEP, THOUGH THERe IS NO REAL REASON TO SAY the “EVEN HER HAIR”. AUTHOR GETS TANGLED UP IN HER WORDCONcoctions, that can happen can happen. Anyhoo, back to describing the CONTEST, apparently you should post bookreviews on facebook about books with the subject matter of APRIL IN PARIS, then there will be a draw and then you win a 10 dollar gift certificate for somewhere and a bag of coffee courtesy of the starbucks in the mall, there is an Eiffel tower made out of cardboard, next to the contest place, very nice, so very very very nice. No vacation prize, no travel to paris, nope, ten bucks will do, will do. The Eiffel tower model is really nice, black and white drawings on the white of the card board, anyhoo, we type here, fast and fast and fast. The wordcount standing @ 84 646, so this is what you did with your spring, you wrote and typed and wrote. Used the terms typing and writing, interchangeably, interchangeably. Still some more words, some 16 000 of them, and we're done here done here. The text is all ready to be sent out, well, the first 50 pages at least, the SASE, the cover letter, it will all sail back to her, rejected, rejected. And we type here and type here and type here. Author listened to an artist talk by someone named matthew monahan, the night before the night before. There will be an artist opening tonite, there will be a film screening in langara, tonite, there is the design show in langara, now, for three days. There still are the last days of the 60's

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painters' exhibition at the VAG. Yay, yay, lots of artsy things going on, all around town, anyhoo, we just keep on typing and typing and typing and typing here. In the distance this weird, rainbowy colorful paper thingie, a concoction somewhere between mobile and dragon boat, yay and yay and yay, it is a big sailboat, so cute, ah so cute. Pretty impressive, pretty impressive. The clock on the wall, so very next to twelve noon, yay, and we type here and type here and type here and type here. A woman in purple, light purple, lavenderish, yellow green boots, author dispenses advice about how to navigate the library interface, to the nice blond lady, in between words, in between typing. We are getting there, typing and talking, multitasking, but, hey, in the end we should get roaring back to the visual arts, that is what we trained for here, trained for here. A studio paint on the tip of your shoes, or maybe on the right side, yeah, yeah, the like and the like and the like and the like. 84975, only 25 more, to make it to 85 thou, now rush them in, rush them in. A push on the wordcount button, two more, two more, and we are there, we are finally there. Now stop, now spellchack, save, the .like and the like and the like and the like. Fragmented words, hurled into posterity, whatever that means, whatever that means. Only ten minutes on this computer station, better hurry, better hurry up, hurry up. Writing under the gun, we should manage here manage here, manage here, manage here. 85065, it is and it is and it is and it is. -------------------april 27- back here in the library, something reeks so much like barf. Author here scouted this place until she sat down to type, it was totally unsmelly, but now a perfectly clean looking person sat behind her and the whole place smells like stale vomit, yuck, yuck. Author leans forward, towards the monitor, in order to get away from the smell, the smell. She cannot really change her station, once this is booked she has to sit at the same station, at least that is how she understands it, if you log out you cannot really log in somewhere else, then again, maybe you can. Author 234

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ponders, she sure filled the page with all these inconsequential thoughts, the wordcount stands at 85 198, thus we need 15 000 more to call this a novel, a novel. Forget 'bout story arc, nah, it is the wordcount that makes or breaks a novel, 50 000 is a novella, 100 000 is a novel. What is an epic? Author ponders who makes up all these stupid categorizations, who are the nomenclature- writers, the ones that press reluctant artistry into bureaucratic forms, yeah, yeah, those ones those ones. Anyhoo, we just type here type here, on the fourth floor of the library in downtown Vancouver, we just type and type and type and type. All the typewriters in the oakridge branch were taken thus author here had to make her way down here to this place, to type and to type and to type and to type. There is a statistics canada sign, a job search/career sign, there is a man who waxes on and on on his cell phone, yeah, bye, he ended this, ended this. He is actually a so very scrawny guy, bespectacled, pinkish shirt, his voice sounded much more manly than he is, he is much younger than the older middle age voice he splurred out. Anyhoo, someone coughs, someone talks to himself in gibberishish, we type here and type here and type here and type here. Like the construction workers, the ones that work for the city, the same way author here flocks to downtown to type this up type this up type this up. Her masterpiece, yeah, yeah, that one that one that one. At this speed, she is fabricating four master pieces per year, 40 in ten, yay, yay, she will make her way to Stockholm in time, to thank the nobel committee, my parents, my children, husband, the like and the like and the like and the like. Every teacher I ever had, and especially, google, ah, google. Ah, to throw her trophy way into the air, we made it made it made it made it made it here. We are finally there have finally arrived, made it to the east side, yeah, yeah, yeah, and you thought they are all men of letters. Nope, the ladies of letters, sounds much better anyways, anyways, yep, a reluctant change of the guard, and we are losing it here, why not why not and why not and why not. Someone stomps over the floor, yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah. Sun outside, someone

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sighs, other noises, waiting to be described, observed, the like and the like and the like and the like, a cough a sneeze a stomp, save and spellcheck spellcheck. -----------------------------author here has fifty-one more minutes, she might as well type some more here, type some more here. Boredom is wearing her down, she does not really have mush to say, much to write, just goes thru the motions, just type and type and type and type some more. Behind her, people giggling, a man in a lax hoodie, fuchsia, you know, the color somewhere 'tween red and grey, anyhoo, let us type some type some. Under the STATISTICS CANADA sign, pink folders hanging from the shelves, ah, very aesthetically pleasing, yuh, why not and why not and why not. Someone shuffles his newspaper loudly, outside sunbathed buildings, inside here, the author hunched over, typing atyping. The wordcount that marches forward, forward, someone clears his throat, something clappers down, loudly and loudly. Ah to write to type, on a day in april, words that really won't but that have to go down, anyways, anyways. All these noises, staccato, a yelp, author is losing it here losing it here. Just push down the keys, you'll do fine, do fine, do fine. Sprinkle commas around, yeah, yeah, that will do it should do it. Author has found a favorite past time she either rummages thru all the temperatures all over the world, amsterdam has this temperature, tabriz this one, nyc, this one, makes yer feel that you traveled around da globe, in seconds ah seconds. And then there is yelp, just rummage thru the reviews, though with the chains you need to use google map too, which kinda makes it annoying so very very annoying. The blenz in library square, who knows what the street address is, you have to find the address of the library and then- ah too laborious, let us just type here type here, we have 85 368, anyways, no need to worry, no need and no need and no need and no need. Author is really happy she starts the sentence in one land and then moves to anothe, coherence, ah, so unartsy, so very very unfartsy. Unfartsy. Her nonsensical words, slowly 236

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slowly steadily steadily steadily. A man rushes by, with a grim slightly frightening expression, someone coughs, someone sighs. The voice of the chips bag, ever so silently, ever so quietly ever so quietly ever and ever and ever and ever. --------------------------On the telly, new adventures of old Christine, laughtracks, laughtracks. Some words, fast, fast, they kinda interfere with the watching of whatever it is that is going on on the telly. ---------------An ad an ad an ad an ad an ad. Gerber baby food. Furniture. Car insurance. Ice cream. And we need five words here, five and five and fiv and fivee. 86 006, thus, only 14 000 and we have a novel, yep, it is officially a novel. Once we have 100 000 words, we call it a novel here, anovelanovelanoveanovell. And still another ad, fast and fast and fas and fastt. Toyota, college fund, paper towels. Century link, and back to the old Christine sitcom, and we type and we type and we type and we type heree. Author wonders, she could take this and go down to the coffee shop on arbutus, do the rest of her typing there, yeah, yeah, why not why no why not. -------------------In the coffee shop on arbutus, a Friday nite, well, technically still evening, the place here will be open for 40 or so minutes, and then, closing time, closing time ah closing time. The peppermint tea is standing way too near to the laptop, this does not look good, one wrong move and the new keyboard will be bathed in tea, anyhoo, let us type, fast and fast and fast and fast, hopefully, nothing will happen, slow music on the overhead, a woman with a pink i-phone and a burberry shawl, another one of the regulars talking into her phone- and we type here and type here and type

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her and type here. Malaise is setting in, nausea, insanity, all kinds of dramatic feels, this should enliven the boring staleness of a friday like many, and we type here and type here and type here and type here. The laptop, not connected to the internet, as of yet, as of yet, just let us type here and type here and type here and type here. And there it is, the Gordon food truck, author waits for the milk crates, she is getting accustomed to the drill the drill. A serious man with a black beard near the window, a laptop, a laptop, a young date-pair, the muffins on the sign over the counter, the typing, the typing, the typing, the typing, the typing, the typing. The tea is hot and soothing, the peppermint should be good for the drilling tummy-ache, so it seems so it seems so it seems so it seems. The loudspeaker spits out its rain-foresty music, bird songs, and the milk-crates are here are here. A young one, an old one, and the crates are not just milk, they are all kinds of boxes and the like, the like. They come in, very efficiently, leave, very, so very very efficiently. Efficiently, efficiently, efficiently. Another crate, author ponders, if the term CRATE is even accurate, anyhoo, let us type and type and type and type and type. The young crate-pusher was much more polite than the old crate-pusher, and now a woman with her little son. It is 7:41, we have 86 472 words, time to wrap this up, wrap this up. The crate pushers and another person, still standing outside, talking about a red car, the cars up and down arbutus, still some weirded-out music, spellcheck and spellcheck and spellcheck and spellcheck and spellcheck. Still three persons in here, not wanting to go, not wanting to leave. Closing time, so near, so very very near. And we still type here, a tad and a tad and a tad and a tad and a tad. -------------------------------And still some more words some more words. Against the night that is falling down over Vancouver, against the constant sounds and sights from the telly, against, agains, againstt. 86 600, something like that, something of that kind. Author ponders, if she just types all night, she might 238

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finish this by five in the morning. Homestretch, ah, homestretch. And still no plot, none and none and none and none. Just minutae, minutiae. -----------------------------------------------------------------Still some more words still some more words still some more words. There is not much going on here, not much to describe. The news, erin burnett, the like and the like. The two plants near the window, the brown paper basket with the white filigree border. 86 677, 86 681. Some ads some ads some ads some ads. ---------------april 28- back again in the downtown library, she is not quite sure which floor it is. We have a saturday and we have two and forty-seven, there are words a-waiting to be fed to the machine and they are always, always a-waiting. An ugly man keeps on crackling laughingly at his computer, two elegant teenagers are flirting while one is eating a pringle. Yay, yay, so much to see here, so much to observe, so much to describe. Author walked thru the city, saw the big W at woodwards, the one that is on the street. Makes you think how many rusty-red W's there are in this city, there is the one that is rotating on the roof of the apartment building, there is the one on the street, yay-yay, the W was the first so very significant thing here in this city she saw when moving here, that is what defines vancouver, it is the local eiffel tower, yeah yeah. . And maybe the science world golf ball, yay yay, it defines the skyline, anyhoo, we type here type here and type here and type here,. No reason to talk comparative urbanity, there is so much to describe right here right now, a kid with a red sweater, next to author, searching thru the library catalog, throwing a pen down on the floor, somehow it was clear that he will not sit here for long, if you are in school, you are always on a mission, you are looking for some kind of info, doing research, scower the world for certain 239

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dates, you are driven by goal A and goal B and goal C. Anyhoo, we poet around here, amass all these words, and 87 304 it is, it is. Author just notices that this computer station here is the nicest, it is parked next to a LIBRARY CATALOGUE and RESEARCH station, which means nobody will sit next to her for a long time, she can do her writing here, for two hours straight without someone with too much perfume or too little perfume for that matter sitting next to her sitting next to her. Odorless bliss, yippee, yippee. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. Author picked up the exhibition catalogue of the SFU- BFA- exhibit. Something called I-FLUX, the exhibition has about eleven participants. Talk about small classes, small classes. Even author's high school class was bigger, at fifteen, which is, of course, atypical, atypical. Maybe that is what makes a philosopher-poet outta you, who knows and who knows and who knows and who knows. Anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here. While listening in to the noise of this typewriter, melodically, slightly harmonizing with the walkman slash i-pod noise that whiffs by, whiffs by, whiffs by. Author picked up a shampoo in the drugstore near the woodwards building, she took the skytrrain to vcc, she looked out at the colorful glasses around the science world building, there were other colored glasses around the new building on arbutus and west broadway. Aren’t colored glasses so yesterday, so yesterday, so yesterday- anyhoo, anyhoo, we type here type here type here type here type here. Kerrisdale Days today, lots of pink balloons, the city is awash with “because I am a girl” canvassers. Author feels slightly nauseated, must be the rich foret noir cake she scoffed down in the little patisserie in yaletown, the one with all the eiffel tower cakes, with the old Parisian map on the wall, the one with the french name. Come to think of it, all bakeries which want to charge you a steep amount of dollars happen to have french names, so it seems, so it seems, so it seems. Or they are danish, yeah, yeah, anyhoo, we type here type here, feed nonsensical absolutes to the machine, the machine and the machine. She sighs, 87 382,

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87 385. the wordcount, motioning forward, slow, steady, the like and the like and the like. Ah, all these days, staring stoically at the machine which stares back ever so startled, ever so startled. How about some pushing of the save button, how about spellchecking this for moments for moments for moments. Beautiful woman at the other station, drinking coffee, looking like Haile Selassie’s grand grand daughter. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. Twenty-nine minutes and forty-five seconds, at this station at this station at his station at this station at this station at this station, a tad too many repetitions, why not and why not and why not and why not and why not and why not and why not? Yeah, yeah, 87 557, it is and it is and it is and it is and it is and it is and it is and it is. For some bizarre reason, author cannot make herself stop the repetitions, the rhythms of the language have a life of their own, a life all their own. -------------------------------------She always seems to need a room with a view, yay, yay, yay, we are not the kind of writer who is inspired by a glass of scotch, especially ‘cause we never did have a glass of scotch in one whole life, besides, the era of scotch drinking writers is over, once and for all, once and for all. Emasculated writers are rolling in, taking over, taking over. Writers with dainty teacups, with chamomile tea, they should rock, should and should and will. The coffee shop on arbutus, at six on a Saturday afternoon, a woman, elegant, shifting thru her homework, two men near the window, two women leaving, two blue-clad men asking for their fix of cappuccino and espresso. The day, slowly, slowly. Author pecks so very carefully at the keyboard, no need to aggravate the balance of teacup next to the brand new laptop. And we type here type here and type here type here. The elegant lady with her homework, drinking from her cup, sporting a black and white shawl. You know, if you are enwrapped in a black and white shaw,l you are elegant, so very automatically, so very automatically. Author ponders, her insights are ah so smashing, they sail all over cultural 241

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divides, they are all-encompassing, yay and yay and yay and yay. Ah the writer in late april, in a lowly coffee shop on arbutus, ah, this better be good better be good better be good better be good better be good better be good better be good. All the repetitions in the world, doing us in ah doing us in. good poets, better poets, they have something anew to say, they use terms like anew, they don’t barf all over their new laptops. They do readings, they are bespectacled, they are young, male and white. Those are the rules those are the rules. They have to be utterly scrawny, if they aren’t then their writings are worthless and worthless. Author ponders, sighs, are her observations slightly bullshitty or utterly bullshitty? And who would decide that? The typing goes on and on and on and on. Author still writes and she still, still types. Three months of endless pushed down letters, all over this town, all over the city. The weather became nice, warm, toasty. Winter morphed into spring, she has some more grey hairs, endless cups of chamomile tea, endless cups of peppermint tea. So many many libraries, her typing and her typing and her typing and her typing. A slimish book, some silent ideas, the dreamy prose, the silent typing, the quietness that produces a novel, anynovel. The spring that is in full bloom, in full bloom, in full bloom. The woman with her homework, she calls up her friends, she stalls up her homework, again, again, again. Three men near the window, two men on the striped chairs, a slow afternoon, a slow one a slow one. 87 999, one more, 88 thousand, it is and it is and it is. Some save, some spellcheck, the like and the like and the like and the like. A lot of sighing, that is what you do when u type all day long, all over town, all over town. She feels lightheaded and sick, feels like disintegrating, right here and right now. Yeah, she needs fifty more words, she needs a cozy sweater and she wonders, why there is no music on the overhead, did it break down did it break down? The red EXIT sign, the elegant woman putingt on her grey-lavender fake leather jacket, the counter persons talk, the red car parked in the distance, the distance. A woman in turquoise, the brown lamp illuminating the green

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shelves. Author ponders, her writing is shitty and the oversized muffins are still on the wall, same poster as the day before, the day before. Her pen, so inconsequential, so inconsequential. All the spot lights on the ceiling, singing their songs, singing their songs. She haults, stops her repetitions, the sentences will find their own rhythms, they should should. She feels like barfing, reluctantly and stoically. The chilliness is doing her in, the lullaby of all these conversations, the cars in the distance, the coffee shop that awaits for something that never comes and never comes. Neither love nor lust, neither eureka-moments nor the rain to pour down. Endless words ah endless words and endless words forever, forever, forever forever forever forever forever. Anything else for you sir? And save and spellcheck spellcheck. ------------------------------------------Once more, the milk crate people, they are in and out, author ponders if she should still have a hot chocolate, with whip but no drizzle, instead of hammering away at her keyboard, fast and fast and fast and fast and fast. She just installed skype or, to be precise, she opened an account, this new computer does it like magic like magic. Anyhoo, we just type and type and type some more, some more. Author ponders, will she finally slither into gadget land, nope, not likely not likely, poets don’t use gadgets, so it seems so it seems. They follow the words, kick it old skool, ah, whatever, whatever. It is getting late here, closing time ah closing time, the nice pair next to author, rummaging thru the rest of their papers, the day is over over over over over. Enough of all of these words, enough for today, enough and enough and enough and enough and enough and enough and enough. Woman in green orders her last drink, ah, outta here outta her outta here outta here. -----------------------------------------------

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On the telly, boxers in training, talking about their training, their games, it is some kind of documentary, there is the red CNN sign in the right lower corner, author ponders, she does not know anything about boxing and she is not interested either, but, hey, it is as good a background music as any, if what you do is sitting hunched over and tying up your great amazing novel, the one that does not really click but that will eventually, well, click. You know, where there is a will …, thus, just keep on feeding those words to the machine, to the machine, to the machine. The two plants, still near the window, the brown paper basket with the white filigree border, still in its place, still and still and still. An ad for a painkiller, another ad for a john deere mower, now an ad for, well, CNN. Anyhoo, we type and type and type and type here. And back to the boxer docu, and save and spellcheck and spellcheck spellcheck. 88 635, 637. -------------------------------------------april 29- in the downtown library on the fifth floor, typing typing typing typing typing. A woman is crying while being on the computer, it is kind of awkward, she seems to want to be alone in her sorrow, so there is not really any reason to start the”there there”. Hopefully she will just calm down, she seems to be starting to compose herself, she is starting to read what is on the monitor, distraction is always good when you are agitated. Author here is not sitting at the right station, she does not look outside from here, she is looking to the inside of this place, the big 5 on the column, she has her back to the day, to the outdoor light, she starts feeling claustrophobic, a tad and a tad and a tad and a tad. Today was the last day of the 60's painting exhibit in the VAG, author still has her pass, the art gallery is open until five, apparently, so very very apparently. Somehow, it is more feasible to sit on the fifth floor of the VPL downtown place, to type up stuff, to amass words, to march this wordcount forward and forward and forward. The novel that is in its last steps, reluctantly, forcefully, the like and the like and the like and the like. The EXIT sign under the big 5, 244

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the staleness of this place, the impersonalness of all these numbers all these letters all of this all of this. The soothingness of a big building, full of space, full of space. Alexandria, a tad and a tad, iskanderia, and we type heer write here type here.type here. 88 979 88 981. The crying woman is now giggling and laughing that was fast fast. And we type here and type here and type here some more. The words that splash against the monitor, forcefully or hesitantly or whatever, whateverish, teenagers loudly, somewhere in the back, somewhere in the back. A Sunday in downtown, while the sun shines, a tad a tad. While sleepiness is still over the city, while the woman in the jeans suit storms out, while the words accumulate and accumulate and accumulate. Stop this, spellcheck this, the like and the like and the like and the like. 89 077 89 078 89 079. -----------------------11 000 words, 50 pages, how long will that take will that take. Seems, quality is irrelevant, only quantity is what matters matters. Sunday afternoon in the coffee shop on arbutus, author is not quite sure if she knows the woman in white and black, the one with glasses in her hair. Seems, that woman seems to think the same, author feels like an utter geek sitting here and typing and typing and typing. Unpublished writers that hammer away at the keyboard, all over town, all over town. While having chamomile tea, while having chai latte, while listening in to the beat on the loudspeaker, while people-watching, a-people-watching. The homestretch, the homestretch, three month of constant typing, ninety days in some self-inflicted insane-asylumish status. Why type if no one will publish this publish this publish this publish this. The peppermint tea is so very hot, the blond woman near the counter is so very elegant. Hip hop on the loud speaker, a landscaper mowing the grass, the EXIT sign, homestretch ah homestretch homestretch homestretch homestretch homestretch homestretch. Mindless repetitions, yeah, that should do it do it do it.

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It is kind of tough to make up stuff when you’d rather be out and about, having fresh air, sitting hunched over in some lowly coffee shop, no fun and no fun and no fun and no fun and no fun. Writing as chore, typing as chore. This is a far too static undertaking, that is why writers have crooked posture and jump off bridges, this is why they become alcees, it is all this stupidity, the nonsensicalness of putting your thoughts to words, of inventing worlds that are not there, it is the dealing with fluff and fluff and fluff and fluff. Author ponders, she does not have anything to say, nothing, nada, zilch, zilch and zilch. There is no story here, no narrative, none, none, none. Outside the afternoon, slightly stale, slightly stale. Author ponders, what does this even mean, how can an afternoon be stale, bread on the other hand, now, that goes stale, after a while, after a while. The red EXIT sign, the music on the overhead that isn’t and isn’t. Short musical whimpers, for seconds and seconds. The coffee shop a-happening a-happening. The tea that is too cold now, that kind of makes you want to leave this place. The woman in black and white leaves, she is way too young for author to know her. Author knows the sixty-years-old crowd, so it seems so it seems so it seems so it seems. And we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. A man in grey shorts comes in and asks for a lemon loaf. Author hates othe lemon loaf, it has all those poppy seeds that get in between your teeth. A tall woman in elegant grey asking for a tall cappuccino, nobody is sitting here, nobody has home work anymore, it is the end of april, all finals are done and done and done. Author is the only one that is still working on this her dissertation, the novel, that nobody will ever read, yeah, that one and that one. Author ponders, what if her prose will be taken up, what if it is widely distributed, in 57 languages, wouldn’t that be, well, funny, ironic, something like that something like that. We should hope for the best for the best for the best for the best for the best. At this point, author is utterly confused, that happens when you are sitting in a too 246

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chilly coffee house, when your tea is chilly and when you have nothing more to say, nothing and nothing and nothing, you are forcing yourself to fashion words, sentences, you pepper commas and dots into the prose, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. The person in black explains about workstudy, again and again and again and again, research positions, it is actually a woman with glasses, who talks very fast and is so very serious, anyhoo, let us type some and type some and type some and type some. Author ponders, will she ever go to grad school, isn’t this text a kind of dissertation, it certainly is a tremendous amount of work, lots of words, but, hey, there is no body of research involved, no thesis, no antithesis, no synthesis, it is just observations, random ones, random ones, random ones, random ones, random ones. Author ponders, so what is it, is it art, is it poetry, an epic? It is what she did for ninety days, the typing and the typing and the typing and the typing. Anyhoo, the clusters of people here are busy with their conversations, the two starbucks counter persons, the three students near the door. And author is still typing here, typing here, typing here, she has a slight toothache, feels slightly chilly and chilly. The bus drives by, a silver car drives down arbutus. 89 842, we only need 150 or so to make it to 90 000, maybe author should just stop at 90 000, what is the benefit of stretching this to 100 000? She still did not sell the travelogue she penned four years ago, she is a painter who doesn’t sell paintings, an animator who doesn’t sell animations, a writer who doesn’t sell books. An unsellable artist, though definitely not a starvingish one. Anyhoo, that all said, just keep on typing and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing. Seventy words ah seventy seventy seventy seventy seventy. And now forty and forty and forty, somehow she amassed some words on the way, while doing the spellcheck, yeah, yeah, it happens, it happens. Fourteen words, fourteen, fourteen, fourteen. And now, nine more words, nine more words. And only one word, only one words, only one. And we 247

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have 90 000 and some, outta here, outta here. The coffee shop closed up, the word count is ok, and we are outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here. --------------------------------------------------------------------april 30- sitting here in the pouring rain, listening to the typing the typing. Well, obviously she is not sitting in the open air, there is a roof, she can hear the rain, can see the rain. Today, her typing is supposed to happen in the solitude of her kitchen and it would be better to call it a studio or a lab, it kind of gives her wordsmithing an artsy gloss, puts it smack into the realm of professional undertakings, author here ponders, is it really bullshit day, so early in the morning, so early in the morning. Yay yay, outside rain, which these days always reminds her of the talk in 221a she listened to some weeks ago, the one where the speaker was talking about how the whole color of a city changes in the rain, all the walls get darker, the streets have a darker shade of grey because that is what happens to basically any material, it gets darker when soaked and the asphalt of the streets definitely gets darker, buildings become darker, even the green on the trees becomes darker. Author ponders, she is not good enough at repeating the gist of that lecture, the prof who did the talk was much more articulate, anyhoo, we digress here and we type and type and type some more. It is weird and strange to type in one’s own place, there is nobody here to watch, one gets oversensitive to the noise, the short sporadic chirping of birds, ever so often, the rain, especially the coming down of solitary drops onto/into the already formed lake on the dirty-ish table outside, the noise of the typing, the like and the like and the like and the like. Author starts humming to herself, you can easily do that when there is nobody there to complain, she ponders, she could easily write a book about the differences of working in solitude and working in a room with others, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here. She does not have a waterproof casing for this laptop, thus she did not take this to the coffee shop on arbutus, to the one near the 248

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lavista nail salon, the seafood place, the sandwich store. Nope, she just got a coffee and came back here to start typing in utter solitude, depressing, oppressing solitude. Tolstoy used to write in the marketplace, the faces of people inspired him, this according to a Seinfeld episode which seems to be her link to the greater world these days. Or as Elaine said to jerry, IT IS SO SAID THAT ALL YOUR KNOWLEDGE ABOUT HIGH CULTURE COMES FROM BUGS BUNNY CARTOONS, yeah, yeah, it can happen to the best of us the best of us. Just keep on typing, fast and furious, yay, why not and why not and why not and why not? Make sure, you fill this up with enough, well, fillers, the obligatory ahs and oohs, the repeats, the like and the like and the like and the like. Author ponders, she still has two novels from 2009 in the basement here, waiting to be typed up, typed up. Her longhand manuscripts, the ones she is not sharing with the world as of yet as of yet. The world is turning without people having access to the insights she, the author here, accumulated, in 2009, how can that be, how, ah, how? And we type here and type here and type here and type some more some more. While leaving out commas to make this more artsy-fartsy, yay and yay and yay and yay. Author ponders, they are starting the installation of the grad show in the art school today, luckily nobody asked her to join the curatorial team, she was so bad the year before, asked way too many questions, was holding up the process, had no initiative whatsoever, chatted way too much, was a non-self-starter, yay and yay and yay, that is why she was not contacted this year, so it seems so it seems so it seems so it seems so it seems. 90 730 words, ah, not bad and not bad and not bad and not bad- not that bad. Maybe she can make 5000 today and 5000 the next day, she will have this finished on may first, just like her first novel in 2008, the one that was sent out, over and over, and rejected, over and over, over and over. Author ponders, so this is why typists are supposed to look straight forward at the monitor, if you tilt your head too much and just stare down onto the keyboard, your neck will cramp up, cramp up. She feels neck pain

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already, after only 20 minutes or so of typing, typing typing. And the rain is coming down, the drops against the puddle slash mini lake on the table outside, splashing in, making a concentric circle, having the water splash up again, quivering for moments, only to let gravity take its toll, author ponders, her descriptions of rain will not hold up against what has been done already, in world lit, world lit. And we type heer and type here and type some more, some more. Kerouac typed or wrote, depending on whether Capote was right or wrong, ON THE ROAD in three weeks, thus, we could easily make it to one hundred thousand by the end of tomorrow, but it will be pretty trying on the body, that is for sure that is for sure. The sound of an ambulance in the distance, knifing thru the early slash late morning, getting more precise, louder, more pressing ah pressing. Anyhoo, let us type some and type some sand type some. 96 997, 90 999, yay yay, 91 thousand, 1000 words in less than an hou,r this better be good, this is actually pretty good, pretty good pretty good. The painter who became a writer, the rain does not stop, and we’re outta here outta here. For now and for now and for now and for now and for now and for now and for now and for now and for now. -----------------------------Spellcheck is over, she is at 91 000, she could stop this insanity here, right now and right now. But, hey, that little voice inside your head, the one that posits, orders: FORWARD FORWARD. Author here ponders, there used to be this T-shirt inscript some odd years ago, I ONLY LISTEN TO THE LITTLE VOICES IN MY HEAD, author ponders, if she should elaborate, but, hey, she doesn’t feel like it feel like that. Today seems to be the day that sentences are held hanging in mid-air, more than usual, maybe less than usual. Author ponders if all these weird contradictions a la IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES will cut it cut it. She is pretty happy here, it is good that all her creative writing teachers were pretty gung-ho, they did never 250

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criticize her work, never ever smash it to pieces, they would just say KEEP ON WRITING, KEEP ON DOING WHAT YOU DO. Whatever that means, whatever, whatever, whatever, whatever. Ah, the firm belief in teachers about their students, where would we be without that without that? Author is, like always, not quite sure, what she really wants to say here, she just types and type s and types and types and types. Stop and save, spellcheck spellcheck spellcheck. Sentence fragments in the morning, against the rain in Vancouver, against, against, against and against. -------------------------------------------------------In the library at UBC, typing and typing. This is a really nice spot, grand chairs, though not enough people. You know, it is that time of year, intersessional, intersessional. The no man’s land ‘tween semester 1 and semester 2. Might as well might as well might as well. Somehow, the typing does stall at this place, everything is too unfamiliar, the person at the other computer in the distance is unwrapping his food too loudly too loudly. He has longer hair and a hat and a funny beard. Author ponders, her descripts are very vague, you definitely cannot pick him out of a line-up, but, hey, somehow she feels like not describing everything in detail, she feels slightly overwhelmed by sleepiness, she is killing time to go to the art show in the Dorothy Somerset studios, she is very overwhelmed by how good looking the librarian was. Wow, you look like that and you are a librarian, how can that be how how how. Life is not fair life is fair. And we type here type here type here, against the utterly shiny ceilings, against the utterly shiny pipes, the pipes that are flattened, everything here looks spiffy and, well, spiffy seems to be the best word to describe this, s —p-i-f-f-y. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. Author is losing the last button on the shoulder of this her sweater, when she bought it, there were lots of buttons, which looked kind of nice, now there is one last left- and even that one is no more. Author here puts the shiny button face down on the beige table with the lines therein, she ponders, maybe she should go 251

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and search for a slightly more interesting subject matter, the everyday has been done, ad nauseum and ad nauseum and ad nauseum and ad nauseum. But, hey, we have 91 631, already already already already. Save some, spellcheck some, the like and the like AND THE LIKE and the like. ----------------------A woman in blond is standing near the “great reads” shelf, rummaging thru it, standing back, she is tilting her head to decipher what is written on the spines, she is now holding a red book, she waves her piece of paper, opens another book that is bound in a plastic cover, she wears glasses and a jacket at the corner of green, grey and red, her glasses have a white frame, she leaves, which is not nice, author here had the perfect person to describe, not too much movement, not too little, author ponders, there is not much to describe here, the man lying on the sofa in the corner and reading a book, there is not much to describe, somewhere in the distance, a child making sounds like a car, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type some more. This keyboard is so very spiffy, which is not really a good word for describing even spiffy stuff, but, hey, you can believe me, it is utterly spiffy in ah so many ways, the child is crying now, boredom is setting in, the library that bores the heck out of a kid, anyhoo, keep on typing and typing and a-typing, child starts coughing, seems, anything to interrupt the boredom, and keep on typing a-typing. The bevels on the keyboard look blue, must be the lighting, the angle, who knows who knows who knows who knows. 91 888, the wordcount marching forward forward. Author could make her way to the art show, but, somehow it is more comfy to just keep on sitting here, while the child in the distance now starts shrieking, two shrill shrieks, now silence and silence and silence. Sofa-lyer is sitting up now, is wearing darkrimmed glasses and a red-black sweater, is still looking down at his book or his laptop, one cannot really see it that good from here, from here. The opportunities for people-watchings are pretty limited in this place, there are yellow lights on the wall, author ponders if she should start to 252

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describe them, if she should stop and have a pizza or if she should go and waltz thru the art show. Art shows are kind of stupid, you have to nod to the person who is sitting there, which is kind of counterproductive, you want to watch art without having to communicate with somebody, art is everything but social, and of course there are lots of people who would posit the opposite- anyhoo, let us type and type and type and type, some more and some more and some more and some more. Author ponders if she should go and see if the very good looking librarian is still, well, librarianing around, but, hey, that would be kind of silly, thus let us just type and just type and just type and type some more some more. 92124, it is and it is and it is and it is and it is and it is. And it is and it is, it is, it is, it is. --------------------------------may 1 yeah, yeah, today she should type up 8000 words, today the wordcount has to reach 100 000, there are reasons for this, personal reasons, the main one being that she finished her first 100 000-wordlong text exactly four years ago, on may first, though this was on a flight from jfk, so there are all those time differences, besides, author here ponders if writing should be loaded up with all these strange and bizarre numbers, dates, in short, superstitions, rituals. we just type here and type here, she is sitting in the art school library, the grad exhibit installation is way under way, the librarian and two graduating students are transporting some tent-like construct to the back of the library and up the stairs, author ponders if she should walk thru the art school, exhibits are always much more interesting while they are being installed, the final thing is always a put-down, a lesser version of the planning stage. When something is planned, it kind of goes into so many directions, once it is final it is without the potential, it is final, so very very very very final. So it seems so it seems.

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Author has to change her computer station, this one does not automatically capitalize the first word of a sentence, the place though is so much more cozy than the place of the newer computers, ah, this happens happens happens happens. Author sat in the coffee shop on arbutus, in the morning, observing, trying to remember all the sights, in order to throw them up onto the keyboard, once home, once home. It does not really work that way, you’ve gotta take notes, take photos, or you have to construct stuff outta thin air thin air. Author ponders, she does not really feel like writing a treatise about how different writers work, because, if push comes to shove, who really cares who really cares who really cares. The woman next to author is busy with printing out instruction forms for installing, or labels or something, author here ponders, this lady will be in the same boat that author is in, give it two years, give it two years. Author here graduated from this very place two years ago, and now, she is nowhere nowhere nowhere. Just typing stuff while having a tea, no publishing contract, nothing nada zilch. Author ponders, does it even matter, a piece of paper does not really mean a job, you know, whatever happened to art for art’s sake. Who cares if you are not represented by a gallery and is that really what she wants here. Besides, she chose writing instead of painting, anyhoo, let us type here type here type here type here. Author has to contain herself to not tell the nice lady about her being in the same position two years ago, and if push comes to shove she was in the exhibition phase three years ago, because she exhibited in one year and graduated the next, anyhoo, let us type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. 92 822, only 7300 more, her math is kinda off, kinda off. And… save, and spell-check spell check spellcheck spellcheck spellcheck spellcheck. Repeat your words, that is how you fill the page fill the page fill the page fill the page fill the page fill the page fill the page. Better stop this insanity, for moments and moments and moments and moments and moments and moments and moments and moments. And moments. Ah, to be addicted to typing, that is so normal so normal, so

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utterly utterly normal and normal. Lots of people with art work, congregating in front of the info counter here, the library as museum, this better be good better be good better be good. It is now for three years or so that part of the grad exhibition is installed in the library, ah well ah well ah well. Author ponders, actually, the library has always been an exhibition place, all the libraries are. All the libraries in Vancouver, that is. And we type some and type some and type some. 92 983, march this forward, forward. Eleven more words, ah, eleven eleven. Five, and we are there are there. 93 007, still 7000, still 7000, still 7000. Against the slight hecticness of this place, against against. This library is as hectic as the langara college library always is, funny, how this works, funny how this works. Finally, some commotion against the bla of an art place, so it seems, so it seems so it seems so it seems. Author is not very good at articulating her thoughts, ah, who cares and who cares and who cares and who cares and who cares. Stop, save and spellcheck spellcheck, 4 moments and moments and moments and moments and moments. And moments. And moments. I write while I drink tea, now, there is a title for this, but in the end she will call it THE WRITER, plain and simple, plain and simple, and boring and boring and boring. And boring. You need a certain amount of boredom, so it seems so it seems, the ocean factory, silent, sunny, the day, trolling forward, marching forward. The day and the day and the day and the day and the day and the day. ----------------------------In the coffee shop on arbutus, a hot chocolate that is way too sweet and that does not have enough whip, everything is going array here, author feels sick, nauseated, lightheaded, the like and the like and the like and the like and the like. She had floaters in her eyes in the morning, the recurring state she is in, out of nowhere there are stars in her field of vision, ophthalmologists say, it is no biggy, just a thing that happens to you with age. Author ponders, she does not like it a bit, it 255

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interferes with driving, with walking, with a lot of things. You are used to have straight vision, you are not used to seeing stars, even if it is only for ten minutes at a time, ten minutes at a time. Author ponders, could it be induced by hanging out too much in front of a monitor and anymonitor at that, you know, looking at the computer screen is like staring into the lite, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. The art show on Granville Island, two scrawny guys did paint large white letters on the columns of the bridge, talk about starting your art star career right, right. Anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. 6 600 words, all that is needed here, all and all and all and all and all. Given that there is nothing to say here, we might just fill the page with repetitions, the quintessential question at nanowrimo, can I write the same word 50 000 times, to get to 50 000 words, to 50 000 words. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. She should leave the cursor at the save icon, which does not really work out, the SAVE button should be at the bottom of the page, ah, this keyboard, this whole interface, all designed, wrongly, wrongly. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. Type here. Type here. Type here. Type here. 93 564, 93 566, 93 568, 93 700, 93 702. On the loudspeaker, Kurt Cobain, pretty good music, ah, the seattle grunge scene, history, ah, history. Author ponders if she should skedaddle to a different coffee shop, this one is too strange, it is not really a place where people congregate to, to type up their master pieces, their master pieces. The two women in the back talk a lot about ikea and other things, they now lowered their voices, to gossip a-gossip. Speak louder, for god’s sake, the music on the overhead is drowning out their words ah their words, their words their words. We have 93 667, a cold cocoa, two pies, one apple, one cherry, too much sugar and too much starch, does a poet really need that much fuel that much fuel? No starving artist here for you for you for you for you for you. And we type some and type some and type some and type some and type some and type some and

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type some and type some. Slit repetitions slight repetitions slight reps slight acronyms. The like and the like and the like and the like and the like. Save spellcheck spellcheck spellcheck. ------------------At the kitchen table, author ponders if this total quietness, this total lack of stimuli is conducive to her writing, her writings. There is nothing going on here, the only entertainment is the sound of the typing, the fingers tapping away at the keyboard, scouring for the right letter to push down, one square at a time, one square at a time. Author ponders, her left pinky finger hurts, the cuticle is kinda hurt, not fun to have a booboo, author should put some Neosporin on and a band-aid, even though the Neosporin has the expiration date 00-12, it still is effective, still effective. --------------------Author listens to music while typing, yeah, you can do that on your computer, you even can minimize the image and watch the film on you tube and do your typing, though it does not seem to work that good with this computer, author is not quite sure which buttons to push, besides the loudspeaker is way too shrill, it has to be fine-tuned, adjusted, author here knows what she is writing about, talking about. Ah the words and the words and the words and the words and the words and the words. the like and the like and the like and the like. 93 953, nice, only 6000 and 6000 and 6000. The poet at the end of her epic, the woman at the homestretch, the homestretch. She ponders, is that even the right lingo, probably not ah probably not probably not. A song by the tragically hip, something about poets, actually it is called POETS, it was on the radio, author kinda likes the tragically hip songs, so very quintessential Kingston, so very male white canadiana, so very exotic exotic. Talk about the other, THE OTHER. Anyhoo. We type and type and type here and type here, type here. Nobody will get her connotations, not everybody went thru her exact art 257

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school, thus there is some kind of doublecoding going on. And once more, only author here knows what she is talking about, writing about. Ah, might as well might as well might as well might as well. 94 121, 94 123, 94 127, 7, 7, seven, seven ah seven ah seven. Poetry huh poetry huh poetry huh poetry huh. -------------------------------5900 words, fast and fast and fast and fast and fast. While the tragically hip are singing against the roar of the fridge, while a half-eaten apple pie is rotting silently in the too thin paper bag. And we write here and write here and write here and write here. Author drove around town to find the right kind of coffee joint, the one where words kiss your monitor without even trying, where you are a poet and you know it you know it. Somehow, she did not make it, the kitchen table it is, next to the roaring fridge, next to the half-eaten crumbly pie. Where music comes from the loudspeaker in the too new laptop, way too shrill, way too shrill, way too shrill, way too shrill. Time to catch BIG BANG, Sheldon et. al. And we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. The day marches forward, still eight hours till midnight, time enough to pen the rest of this, the rest of this. Once you hit 100 000, the story will resolve itself by its own volition, it will dissolve, dissolve. Stories come in 100 000 word packages, so it seems, so it seems. Nobody cares what they are about, as long as they have a certain thickness, a certain one, a certain one. Yep, we type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here and type here. Repetitions doing us in, doing us in doing us in. Doing us in doing us in doing us in. ---------------------258

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94 428. Pretty good, pretty good. Author here has to force herself at stopping before the third PRETTY GOOD, there are conventions in writing, you cannot destroy them all, you’ve got to adhere to some of them. Barricades are there to be pulled down, but, hey, not all of them, not all of them. And we type here and type here and type here, type here. Author ponders, what will be her next step, sending this out, sending this out? Rejections kinda hurt, you should make sure that you package it the right way, that you target the right publisher. The one that likes your stuff, yay yay, that one that one that one that one that one. And we type here and type here and type here and type here. Time to go for a walk, time to get some yoghurt, 94 570, 94, 94 and 94, 94. The inner rhythm of all these words, so random so random so random so random. ----On the telly, CNN, author types away, types away, types away. Her writing has deteriorated, so it seems, so it seems. When reading thru the stuff she put down four years ago, she notices that she seemed to be so much more articulate, maybe, because the task of writing had still an element of novelty, maybe old age is just catching up with her ability to arrange and rearrange words, her writing should deteriorate, that is the natural way, that is happening once you get old once you get old. No need to fight it, no need no need. Just the natural course of things, the words refuse to fall into place, it can happen can happen. Author lingers on in her negativity, typing and typing and typing and typing and typing. 94 725 words, she will not make it to 100 000, not this day, not this night. She will just keep on typing all through these days, once she will reach 100 thou, she’ll just stop, abruptly and abruptly and abruptly, abruptly. Nausea is setting in, the sickness that a day in front of the computer evokes, awakens. Longhand, the scratching of a pen, the romantic feel of rocking it old school, yeah and yeah and yeah and yeah. Time to watch Seinfeld, to laugh a tad, to

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laugh a tad, to laugh out a lot, yay, yay, a lot a lot. And 94 825, it is and it is and it is and it is and it is and it is and it is. 94 851, maybe tomorrow her words will be better, magically, so magically. ---------------------------------may 2- in the library, on the fourth floor, the sound of the escalator behind her, she is sitting kinda askew. Leaning towards the middle of the station, the person next to her in blue with a white drawstring, watching TSN, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here. The book that is coming to its end, once this is finished, author here has to start staring at the two boxes in her basement, the longhand notes, the two novels that are still waiting to be transcribed - to be typed up, typed up. One is a nanowrimo novel from 2009, 50 000 words she penned when her laptop broke down, every morning she would sit in bean brothers in the morning at six or at fivethirty, putting down her letters, the one that were leaning either to the left or to the right, yeah, yeah, that is one manuscript - and the other is a reluctant travelogue, amsterdam and other places, the summer and fall of 2009. Yeah, yeah, two 2009ers, two and two and two and two. Anyhoo, let us type here and type here and type some more some more some more some more some more. 94 982, some more and some more, run thru, make it to 95, panting, exhausted exhausted exhausted exhausted exhausted exhausted exhausted. Repetitions propel yer forward, 95 007 it is, it is it is and it is it is it is. The repetition novel, the non-repetition novel. And type and type, yuh, and type, type. The rhythm of the language, always asking 4 more, for more. Stop stop save and spellcheck spellcheck. The songs of the lingo, melodic and harsh, on may second may second. Might as well interrupt the song, for moments, moments, moments, moments, moments, moments, moments, moments, moments, moments. ----------------------------

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Some more words ah some more words. Against the freshness of the afternoon, against the constant noise on the telly, slightly annoyed slightly annoyed. The anchor woman slowly yelling, her voice piercing eyes ears, getting under your skin getting under the skin. Where is the remote, where where? The plants near the window, two of them, the brown paper basket with the filigree border, the red purple pink flowers on the bush outside, against the green of the late afternoon, next to the night, next and next and next. Her words are inaccurate they always are they always are. Translating what you see, pretty tough pretty tough. 95 118, she is still typing still typing. Wondering when she will reach 100 000 words and what significance that will hold. Is it more or less than reaching Mount Everest, what really does happen when you reach a goal you set for yourself? Will the synapses fire faster or slower, might you even lose weight, who knows and who knows and who knows and who knows. The new keyboard of the new laptop- getting used to it, slightly and steadily, slightly and steadily. 95 205, how nice how nice how nice how nice how nice how nice how nice hoe nice how nice. 265 pages, in May of 2012, of 2012. ----------------------------------------------May 3- at the laptop at the kitchen table, ah, this better be good better be good. 5000 words, give or take, the end of the novel, the non-novel. Author ponders, the term non-novel is kind of misleading, what exactly are the characteristics of a novel and how are they broken or not broken in this text. Outside, greenery, freshness, the rain drenched world, the rain drenched world. Author went down to the coffee shop on arbutus, the obligatory mild coffee, the banana loaf slice, author will lose weight, yeah yeah, today is the first day of many hungry days until the ideal weight is reached and one can indulge again and then gain weight again and then lose it again. Circle of life circle of life. The idea is to lose weight without getting lightheaded without that headachy feel without the strong pull to barf all over the keyboard. There should be the right amount of 261

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gymnastics, pilates, yoga, strenuous exercise, whatever you name it. Author ponders, she should make her way to the local aerobic class, move in unison with others, fast fast fast fast. You need certain gear, you need to look like one of their kind, a perfect soldier, in yoga pants that never stay in place and always slide down what with the slippery fabric they are made off. And we type here and type heer, type here type here type here. 95 467, spellcheck time, spellcheck time. ------------------------------------------------------Upstairs the songs of the dryer, the one that seems to take way too long to do its drying, the one that is off, slightly on the kaput side, that one that one that one. Author ponders, yeah yeah, there are different things to describe here, stuff on the other side of pressing issues, inconsequential items, yep, those ones those ones. She should take her laptop back to the coffee shop, she was there already, sans laptop, yeah, yeah, she might as well make an utter spectacle of herself. The writer, a writer, anywriter. The coffee shops next to campus are so much better, that is where students congregate, author ponders where do the writers sit and does this city even have a fierce writer community? Or a reader community, for that matter. A city of 1 million and a half, not enough readers not enough writers. And that is for greater Vancouver, the city itself has half a million. British Columbia has 3 mil. Author ponders, her stats might be so off, could be so off. You can search this with the push of a button, nowadays, just now. But, hey, let us just type here type here type here, type here type here. She should go down to the cute furniture shop, there will be an opening in the afternoon, a gala for foldable lawn chairs. A social event with the theme of chairs, the food there is always excellent, the speakers will do their thing at seven. And we type some type some type some more, some more, some more. Don’t forget to repeat as many words as you can, to propel the wordcount forward, to push it, pull it, yeah and yay and yeah. 95 766, 400 more, 300 more. It is slightly chilly here, outside the greenery and we said that already, already. Nothing to 262

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say, nothing and nothing. Maybe some philosophical banter on the gist of writing, just to fill up the page, just to feed the troth of the ever-hungry machine, just and just and just and just. The day marches forward, limping and whimpering, so it seems, so it seems. Forced poetic words, on a chilly day in may, way too way too chilly for may. Author ponders, she should insert some passage about the weather, it is too cold for may, too hot for may, do you remember this time last year, on and on ‘bout the weather, ‘at should fill da page, fill it and fill it and fill it. Author had this long talk with her creative writing prof, weather one should adhere to orthographical rules or not, weather one should obey stylistic and grammatical conventions, regulations. Her prof was of the opinion that the play with the rules has already been done, ad nauseum ad nauseum. Anyhoo, let us type here and type here and type here and type here. 95 956, push this forward to 6000, some more words, gimmee some more words, some more words. Against the chilliness, against boredom, against so much and so much and so much. Ten more, ah, ten more, five, four, three, two, one, run thru, we’re there, ah, we’re there. 96 007 it is and it is and it is and it is. -------------------------------------A brisk walk through the neighborhood while trying to avoid all the wet dogs, though one just slithered by her, a pretty big one, a beige one, it was kind of funny to see so many people walking their dogs, there was a determined jogger, retirees walking funny, author here came back home and had half a banana which brings her total calorie count to roughly 500, what with the banana bread and cream in her coffee, yeah, yeah, she should live a disciplined and regimented life, though she is really hungry now, and it is only nine in the morning. She had her glasses of water, she now has to wait until 12 o’clock to have lunch which has to be very precise, too. Somehow, she is not cut out for this regimented lifestyle, she always forgets what she is supposed to do at what times, which kind of exercises, she should write it down, make a list, adhere to the list, yeah and yeah and 263

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yeah and yeah. Well, at least we have 200 more words, maybe that is all that counts that counts that counts. The words that are not that good, they are just as rained-in as the overcast May day, there are reluctant drops onto the puddle in the table outside, there is the swaying of the leaves that is not there, and here we have the poet that cannot cannot. Ah, the words the words, all of these words and all of these words and all of these words. What will she do once she reached 100 000, how to fill the days, how and how and how. And 96 288, it is and it is and it is, it is. ---------------------------Out for a tea in the strip mall that time forgot, back in front of the computer. On the telly, THE PRICE IS RIGHT and THE MILLION DOLLAR QUESTION, or whatever the name of that quiz show is. Author knows that it has something to do with a million, so it seems so it seems. Could be something with MILLIONAIRE, anyhoo, let us type here and type here and type here and type here. She walked by this personal training place in the arbutus shopping center, a woman doing exercise, rigorously, rigorously, rigorously, rigorously. Outside the window, still drops on the puddle atop of the table, sporadic, fiercefully. Her words ah her words, she needs about 600 more to make it to 97 thou, she types and types and types, accumulates words, at random at random. Nothing much to describe here, even the fridge is quiet, so quiet, so quiet. Only the sound of the typing, the noise of the three grey buttons on the right sleeve of the grey lavender sweater against the table, words slightly, ever so slightly. Her prose so senseless, drops of the language, klimpering down onto the keyboard, author tries to be poetic, it does not really work, it never does never does. The steel blue light on the keyboard, piercing, a-piercing. The ad on the monitor, LOSE NOTHING, whatever that means, whatever, whatever. This interface is so very bizarre, she cannot close that window which has the everchanging ads, it is totally irritating, annoying, ah, so annoying. It hoppels around, bizarre, bizarre bizarre bizarre. Anyhoo, 96 563, some more words 264

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and some more words and some more words and some more words. The writer wrestling with the muse, how romantic, how romantic. In her case, it is more like a construction worker wrestling with steel, that is how it feels how it feels. A landscaper working, an electrician working. Against the rain, within the rain, under the rain. Her fingers against the metal, the plastic, the constant dumping of the buttons against the laptop, the rain outside, there is nothing poetic here, nothing, nothing, nothing. Writing is so very industrial, so prosaic, same goes for animation, for painting, you are at the mercy of the materials you use, there is no muse whispering into your ear, no intuition, just the mechanistical tapping at keys, yep, that is how it is how it is how it is. The poet in rain, we type and we type and we type and we type. Author ponders, she should listen to the tragically hip song, POETS, but it seems more about social conscience and the like, anyhoo, amass some more words and some more words and some more words. Fragment your ideas, slither by the landscape of differing thoughts, yeah, yeah, why not and why not and why no and why not. Some save, some spellcheck, some and some and some and some and some and some and some and some and then some. 96 806, why not and why not and why not. ----------------------------The rest of the book the rest of the book. Typed up in a dark room while the telly is playing. ---------------------------------------------May 4- cnn playing slowly, slowly. Mid-day, some more words ah some more words ah some more words ah some more words. Can you stay in the homestretch phase forever and forever? When you feel the triumph already, you are so near the finish line, but you do not feel the sorrow of the “game-over”, the cut-off from the process, the hunt for new projects ah projects. On the telly something about vogue and models and eating disorders, before, a tad of wolf blitzer, now a former 265

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model who actually looks a lot like martina navratolovna, you know the tennis lady, we don’t have the name right here, but, hey, that is ok. Author ponders if you can be a model with a horsy face like martina, no offense, anybody can be a model. As long as you can stand in front of a camera and say cheese, you are fine, why does everybody have to be beautiful or thin, go for dandruff and old age, you know, which, like always reminds me of something jerry Seinfeld said, author ponders her words this morning are pretty nasty, even catty, the nice sun, the nice flowers outside, they do that to you do that you. Author has to sit at home what with the dryer working upstairs , you cannot really let it alone, what if it suddenly catches on fire, the wiring is a tad temperamentful, author ponders, if she used a Laundromat, she would do her wash more often, more often. On the other hand she could dry her stuff on a clothesline as in good 4 the environment, good and good and good and good. The day before, an interview by piers morgan with ted turner, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type some more type some more. 97 138 97 139. Words ah words ah words. She saw the lawn chair affair the day before at 18 karat, her days are filled with going to openings and writing the rest of her novel, her non-novel. She ponders if the constant talking on the telly is conducive to good writing, if sitting hunched over is good for her back, if she should start humming while typing, if sitting here is good for the words, if she shouldn’t take this to the coffee shop down on arbutus. So many options so many options. And you thought the day of a writer is super dull, no, she can always ponder about where to do her writing, muse about the perfect place that will automatically make her produce the so very perfect wordings, the perfect well-clicking sounds., make her produce world lit, world lit. whatever that might be whatever that might be, words that should be translated into 57 languages with the gist getting lost in translation, in translation. The battery is at its end, at its utter utter end. And we have 97320 here, yay yay, save

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and spellcheck, while ali velshy is talking in a pink shirt and a grey vest and once more wolf blitzer, wolf blitzer. -------------------------------------------------------------fast words, yeah, some more fast words, fast words. In the oakridge library, next to a woman who for some reason chooses to stick her left middle finger into her left nostril, all between typings and typings, all in public in public. Luckily she did it for only three secs, she now types ferociously, buggerfinger nonewhitheld. And we type here type here type here, fast, fast, the dryer in author's place is doing its things, somehow, author figured out that it could go unsupervised, for moments, for hours. Her writings, pretty weird today, the google doodle demarks keith haring's 54th birthday, oh look, he was born three years and four days after author here, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here, type here. Seems, bugger lady next to author is writing a novel too, yay yay, it's the in-thing to do, so it seems so it seems. Today there will be industry night, tomorrow there will be the bruhaha-ey opening, all in the artschool, the old art school. Anyhoo, we type here and type here, fast and fast. Against this incredibly uncomfy barstool-chair, against the stale and full afternoon in the library, against and against and against and against and against and against and against and against and against and against and against and against and against and against and against. Better stop those reps, for moments, for moments. ---------------------------------Back in her place, the telly in the darkened room, the big bang theory on said telly. The sound is too low, one can hardly listen in to the jokes. But, hey, the colorful set, the laugh tracks, it is still entertaining enough to propel the wordcount forward, forward. 97 663, author has seen this very episode on her flight back from Toronto last November. Anyhoo, just type and type, while a j. c. 267

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penney ad is on, while the two plants near the window waver, while the brown paper basket with the filigree border is just there is just there. The stagnation of this afternoon, outside saccharine sweet sunny weather, inside here, a laptop, the telly, the typing the typings. Boredom extraordinaire, so it seems so it seems so it seems. The words that are not really there, they slither by the true meanings they try to evoke, harshly dilettante, harsh and harsh and harsh. You ain’t no poet, yep, so it seems, ah, so it seems. But hey, we have some more words here and some more words. Go for it, run and run, make it to 98 thousand, fast and fast and fast and fast. Amy, Sheldon, penny and Bernadette having martinis or grasshoppers, some kinds of drinks with little umbrellas, ah, we still need two hundred, still need two hundred. The show sure has a lot of red in it, red drinks, red sweaters, science in color in color. And just type on type on type on. 97 830 - let us type and type and type and type and type. Now, the scene in the taxi, where they are going to a place to dance the waltz. And we type on here type on. While the world outside is happening, while so many more pressing issues are happening, we waste our time here just typing and typing and typing. Amassing words amassing words amassing words amassing words amassing words. Only 98 words, run for the end run to the end. Ah some more words ah some more words. Fast and fast, but we said that already already. Author ponders how she could enliven this text, maybe some writing classes will do will do. Sitting with a group of strangers, letting them discourage you, making disparaging remarks. Well, actually, that hardly happens, for some bizarre reason, author’s writings tend to garner applause, slight laurels, the like the like the like. People saying, hey, you write good, as if they are insinuating that with a face like that we thought you are hardly able to write your own name. Anyhoo, we passed 98 000, 98 008 it is, it is, when did that happen, when, when, when? The beginning of 2012, the first five months, another novel, a slight one, a so very slight one. Whatever that means whatever whatever whatever and whatever whatever.

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May 5- fast and fast and fast and fast. A day, somewhere between overcast and sunny, you know, quivering in between those two states, sun coming out, sun hiding behind clouds, anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here. 98 105, so we need 2000, and then we have a brand-new book here, one that is waiting to be sent out and to be rejected, because that is what happens to the majority of manuscripts nowadays, so it seems, so it seem, so it seems, so it seems. But, hey that should not deter yer from writing, from typing, it’s a dirty job but somebody has to do it, thus, just be a poet just stay a poet- be a philosopher king and sing songs about millions of peaches, yuh yuh, why not and why not and why not and why not. Author here is getting ready to watch the live cast of the art school graduation, kind of like slithering down to memory lane, she did the grad thingy two years ago, it is always interesting, anyhoo, let us type here and type here and type some more, some more, some more. Save, spellcheck, the like the like the like. And wordcount, we have 98 257 here, 1800 and we are outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here. She will miss her typing days, once this is over, she will have to fill her days with other things, maybe drawing, maybe and maybe and maybe and maybe. Artistering around is pretty tough, you produce stuff but you have no clue if there will be a demand, you work heavily on the supply side of things, but you might just fill up your warehouse, in vain and in vain and in vain and in vain. Or the basement or the usb-stick, anyhoo, we have 98 379, 98 38- and save and save and save and save and save. -------------------------------------------------A sunny morning in may, may 6 it is, it is, it is, it is. Birds a-singing, so very Sunday-ish, author slept at five in the morning, what with the art school opening the night before, what with watching

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3 chick flicks in a row, sex in the city, the devil wears prada, rumor has it with Jennifer anniston and Kevin Costner, yay and yay and yay, at this point we are totally chick-flicked-out. John Wayne should do it now, James bond, the like and the like and the like and the like. If push comes to shove, total silence is better, no telly for seconds for moments. Just the chirping of the birds, saccharine, against the sun. Just a room to herself, and master pieces will flow off your feather, reluctantly, forcefully. Author saw this animation about flight safety at the grad show, made her miss animation, drawing lines that move, so much better than words on a page, so much better, so much and so much and so much. Words do not really move visually, they just move silently thru the readers’s brain. They are way too constricted, they are just definitely the second best thing. Just type and just type and just type. Maybe writing longhand is more satisfying, at least you make the pen swirl over the paper, with a machine, you just sit hunched over, and peck at buttons, on this small keyboard, anyhoo, we type some and type some and have 98 616 here, only 1500 to go and to go and to go and to go and to go. Another novel without readers, somewhere frolicking in cyberspace. Far away, like Saturn, like Uranus. Anyhoo, let us type some and type some. Spellcheck and save, yuh yuh, the like and the like and the like and the like and the like and the like and the like and the like and the like. -----------------------------------------------may 7- whether her words are good or bad, this will be her last day of typing this up typing this up typing this up typing this up typing this up. The conclusion, the non-conclusion. Words that draw all of this together, words that shatter all of this apart. Final thoughts, final whimpers. Nothingness or fulfilledness. Anyhoo, this is the oakridge library, eleven forty-eight, author had a banana loaf in the coffee shop on arbutus, the sun outside is there, is there. She was in the new Ikea the day before, she saw an acquaintance in the coffee shop but did not say Hi. These are her days her days 270

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her days her days her days. Three months and some, typing and typing. Author ponders, tomorrow will be her birthday, 57 years on this planet, anyhoo, we type some and type some and type some and type some and type some and type some and type some and type some and type some. 98 923, ninety eight nine two three. The day that marches forward, the wordcount that reaches its end. 100 000, that is the cutoff line, yay and yay and yay. Should be finished by midnight, at the very last the very last. Some save some spellcheck, three months of writing of writing of typing. Bad words good words so very very mediocre words. Words that kept her from strangling herself, words that are quite good enough good enough. Words instead of paint of music. Words and words and words and words. Smithed so very very reluctantly, forced into weird and bizarre sentences, insightful, non insightful, the like and the like and the like and the like. Fast fast, forcibly. And we type some type some, author's left lower lip starts to tremble tremble tremble. Yeah yeah, writing is not thatgood for the body, makes you tremble, shakes you up, hunches your shoulders over, makes yer constipated, makes you barf. Anyhoo, we type here and type here and type here and type here, outside, the world is waiting to be walked thru, the typing of the person next to her is irritating. 99103, 99107, break and break and break. For moments, for infinity. The so very final letters will be typed in front of the telly, some time from now, some time from now. Woman in flowery shirt, a sneeze, loudly ah loudly. Spellcheck stop and save and save and save and save. For now, yeah, yeah, for now and now and now and now and now. 800 words, 800, she will walk thru this city and run after the right words ah the right words, the best the rightest, why not and why not and why not and why not and why not? France has a new president, btw, btw. --------------------------------------some more words, some more words. Still in the library, we have 99 258 here, this librarian with his overloud sonore voice, so utterly annoying, utterly ah utterly. Fast words fast words, 99 278, 99 271

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280. a baby crying, a man yelling into his cell phone. A man with too much hair gel, other people in the distance, the distance. 99 304, outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here outta here. The epilogue will be penned later ah later ah later ah later ah later. Stop and spellcheck, save ah save ah save ah save ah save ah save ah save and save, save, save, save. 500 more, 500, 500 500. ---------------------------------In the community college, fast words ah fast words. The little gallery made outta glass, still in its place, still in its place, still in its place. Today seems to be the first day of summer semester, author here is using this place as a guest, 500 words is all we need here all we need here all we need here all we need here. 100 days of constant typing, author here has two kinds of sushi near the computer, but, first, we have to type and type and type and type. Sushi can wait, in its plastic bag, she got it from oakridge, oakridge, oakridge, oakridge oakridge. The woman at the other station looks very elegant what with powdery pink cardigan and oversized but not too oversized gold watch. More like a really nice watch, author ponders what is the name of that label that has little diamonds floating in the number plate. Anyhoo, we type here type here, the words are not that accurate, this should go for some kind of epilogue, the end of her writing, her typingish spurts, she has a slight headache, the begin of nausea, that one and that one and that one and that one. She starts eating half of the sushi, Philadelphia and avo, very good very good. Then again the sesame seeds go into all the cavities of the teeth, somehow this is not what should be mentioned in an epilogue. If this is an epilogue. Nope, these are merely the last words in her text, her novel, the slight non-novel. The one that changed its name every some days, the one that might be in the end only be called “the writer”, or WRITER without the THE. Maybe “writer comma writer”, maybe “next to big bang”, maybe ah maybe. THE WRITER it will be, yuh, why not why not why not why 272

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not and why not. In lower caps, like in “the writer”. Author ponders what kind of garb should she wear on her book tour, artistic, businessy, something in-between. What hairdo, what earrings, what lipstick. No make-up, some make up, tons of makeup. False lashes, high heels low heels, bare feet. Flip flops. Glasses in her hair or none. Should she dye the grey strands out or should she dye more in, should she squirm or laugh out loud- should she be jovial or utterly reserved, should she have her arms in front to of her chest or welcome the audience with open arms, should she giggle girlishly or disapprove like a headmistress, sternly. Ah the writer the persona of a writer. Her critics at the guardian at the new york times. Her nobel prize, the flight to Stockholm in a quivering jet. Maybe she should go by train to new york city, then to Southampton by boat, or she should just do her acceptance speech via skype. Ah the options the options. Of course, first we have to have an agent a publisher, the like and the like and the like and the like. 40 more words, that is all we need here. Marketing can wait, can wait. A woman slithers to the reference place, making sing songy sounds of female-ness, the too sunburned jock in blue t-shirt, for moments moments. Yeah yeah,first day of school, a summer reading writing and the like ah the like. Sun bathed toesies, the like and the like. Water, beach, shark attacks, shark attacks. Lazy summerv hazy summer, some rhymes, 160 more words, fast and fast and fast and fast. Woman in powdery pink stolps earphones into her ears, a phone ringing once twice thrice. Ah the words and ah the words. Poetry in an epic, we are losing it here losing it here. Still the rest of the sushi, sounds of typing a-typing. The sun, outside and outside and outside. Winter and spring writing and writing, more typing than writing, ah who cares and who cares and who cares and who cares. Fragments hurled at a monitor, for moments and moments and moments and moments. 925, some more words some more words. Don’t look back, run thru ah run thru. Over the finish line, gallop through, the yellow ribbon spread all over you, with the black FINISH LINE written thereon, and why should the banner be

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yellow. It is not a crime scene thingie and we used way too many HEYs and yeps and anyhoos here. The author ah the author and we are there we are finally finally finally finally there. Go out with a bang, 100006, it is yep it is. The day murmurs forward, indifferent ah so indifferent. And this should be her last word, it’s as good as any as any as any and as any as any. Time to have sushi time to join the living and life and life and life. No more typing 4 you, no more and no more and no more. The music from powdery pink’s i-phone, ah yuh and ah yuh and ah yuh and ah yuh and ah yuh and ah yuh and ah yuh and ah yuh.and ahyuh and ah yuh and ayauh. And ah ya. As good an ending as any, while the woman in pale blue and black makes her way thru the grass outside, while the sky is not really blue and not really grey, while typing is still occurring and while the sounds and the noise of so many people squash her writing here, while author does not really know what she is saying, while the wordcount is all filled up, while we have to stop writing, while soy sauce is smushed on the mouse here, while this is happening that is happening and while someone sneezes, yelpingly, ah, so yelpingly yelpingly. There are no good words to finish this, stop and spellcheck and save and save. 100 277, ah, it is and it is and it is and it is and it is. A man in a yellow shirt walks by, a phone rings, the story is over, over, over and over, over. Upstairs the neon lights and the glass railings, a woman with head phones, down here, the last words, for moments, for moments. The last words that will not make it not make it. The writer, ah, for moments for moments. ------------

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