A word of explanation

Hello. I hope you are enjoying this novel, which is how I am approaching this little experiment, as it unravels in real time. The perfectionist in me feels compelled to explain that these texts are written in haste. I wake up at about 6:30am, make coffee, and start writing. With my previous writing (essays, novels) I obsessively laboured over every sentence, perhaps excessively, perhaps it made my prose a little overwrought, but at least it felt like the finished whole had a sculptural quality to it, like it was final within its limitations. This, here, is liberating but worrisome. As I madly circle around Vingis Park for my daily constitutional, I grimace at the many clumsy turns of phrase, the shoddy wording, and the countless other flaws seeping out of those little whorls of dubious individuality, those tap-dancing flourishes of the fingertips. These are sketches, doodles, moderately filtered outpourings. By 8:30am, my head is throbbing from my early-morning exertions. I take a break, relieve my mind. I scrutinize the brown stain on the crumpled paper before me, before flushing it away, only to return to the black stain on the screen in front of me. Language is porous, open-ended, forever shifting. It can never have a happy end. This novel is proudly about nothing-in-particular. It might pretend to say something, but it is really just a celebration of the mundane, the quotidian, the thing-in-front-of-us: the dead-end. Language forces us into a corner, it coerces us into a position. This is my futile insurrection against that oppressive state of affairs. This is my love letter to language. My sole aim is to reach 100 texts. Upon which my novel will not be completed but it will have reached a nice, tidy round number. I thank you, whoever you are, for reading. Statistically speaking, may you never number less than twelve…


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