A word of explanation

Hello. I hope you are enjoying this novel, which is how I am justifying this experiment, as it unravels in real time. The perfectionist in me feels compelled to explain that the texts are written in haste. I wake up at about 6:30am (often earlier), make coffee, and get to work. With my other writing I obsessively laboured over every sentence, to the point where it felt like I had exhausted all other possibilities: what was left was the best way I could say it given the (grid-like) lay of my synaptic land. 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, the countless other flaws. These are mere sketches and doodles in comparison. 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, only to feel the same way about the black stain on the screen in front of me. Language is porous, open-ended, forever shifting. It can never have a happy or satisfying end. This novel is defiantly 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 inevitable dead-end. Language forces us into a corner, coerces us into a position. This is me fighting my corner. This is my (passive-aggressive) love letter to language.  My aim is to reach 100 texts. Upon which nothing will have been completed but it will make a nice, tidy round number. I thank you, whoever you are, for reading. Statistically speaking, may you not number less than twelve…



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