The Writer, the Reader, the Text, the Reality

Did you hear about the author who forgot what he was writing half way through a novel? No, me neither.

Readers want to be be told something new (or have their prejudices confirmed in a novel way). Writers, on the other hand, want to tell that old story that’s been banging about in their brain since it happened. That’s why, relatively speaking, there aren’t that many successful authors.

Reality isn’t something that’s easy to write about. There’s just too goshdarn much stuff in any one place for anyone to be able to apprehend or even comprehend all of it, much less be able to write it all down.

When I think about the dramas being enacted in this room: spiders stretching their legs in anticipation of another bout of homemaking, generations of germs living and dying on tips of my fingers, motes of dust slipping in and out of my nostrils and me, lumpen amidst it all with eyelids flickering up and down in time to thumbs that thumpenly deliver the letters of this text.

Forgive me, but all I’m doing here is passing time whilst waiting for my phone to charge.

Oh, it’s a terrible love I have for this life of living in the company of spiders and such. Don’t you feel that they are oh-so-quiet, even compared to my meditations on a single, red triangle?


Right, 70% – that’s enough. I’m going for a walk.

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