THE BOOK WRITER AND HER BOOK

1.

The book writer and her book, shmeh, seems to be a good enough title. As good as any.

The day is dreary, grey in a happy way. Next to noon. The coffee house is desolate, maybe

because spring break has set in and the usual crowd from the high school is happily enjoying the

spring that is not really there. The grey spring.

There are persons in the coffee house, the barista who is chipper than usually. The one with lots

of courses at the community college on Forty-ninth.

The coffee house never ever moves, it stays the same. Once a truck demolished the front door, by

accident. Yelpies gave it good ratings, mostly because of its insignificance. A coffee house on the

way, where people respite on their way to important places. They will fill their important lives

with important stuff, in-between they have a curry fajita or a blonde espresso latte. Soy, almond.

The book writer would love to buy dinner too in this place, curry fajita and blonde espresso latte.

Which is smooth, so the ad says in bold letters, the one that is plastered on the wall of this coffee

house. She will write one more book, the one that will land her on the bestseller list. The one that

will make her catch the red-eye to New York City, so that she can converse with Charlie. Charlie

Rose, that is, though he seems to be absent these days, sick, maybe.

It is a dreary day, one dreary day of many. She nurtures her cold, the remnants. Well, she nurtures

her getting better, the body that has to sleep it out. There is no fever and if there is, it is hardly

there. The cold that kind of passed her by but that has to be watched. She still feels sick, weird,

not quite there. A glass of wine would be fun, nice; grog, rum. Something with a shot of the Irish

whiskey in it, the fresh one in the fridge. She never drinks, because she does not want to smell

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like a lush. At ten in the morn. There are book writers who refuse to drink, their books suck.

Hard drinking is part of writing. If you cannot hold your liquor, then you are a lightweight in the

world of words.

No Nobel prize for you here. No soup for you.

She has done many NaNoWriMos, it is not November, but it seems to be time to write some 100

000 words in one sitting. Several sittings.

She does drawings in increments, one per day on the second floor of the north building of the art

school. In the communal studio that costs her 150 bucks per month.

She does exercise in increments, in order to lose thirty pounds until summer.

Her life is non-remarkable, predictable.

Rain is coming down on the city. Wordcount: 481.

2.

Time for Friends, it is after all, thirty-five minutes after noon. The episode where Rachel is in the

coffee house in her brides-gown, she left Barry at the altar or something. Sweetn Low, she asks

the person who hands her a big yellow latte cup. Yup, we all know that she will work here in

Central Perk. All the friendsters are so young here. Daddy, Rachel on the phone.

3.

How to type while watching what is on on the screen. Conundrum, huh.

4.

2
And Joey is so young, whereas now that he is a man with a plan, he is all old and grey. He used

to be Kellys boyfriend in Married.

5.

Too much TV. Too much coffee. this is how your life passes you by. She will name each chapter

with a number, 1 to 1000, nah, nobody will take her on, you have to do it more on the

conventional side. Writing books, such a weird profession. There are art book fairs, where she

could peddle her wares, in Bergen, in Berlin. One-offs of books.

6.

664 words. There is no story-line, there never is. No linear one, at least. She usually just

describes hapless authors the world over. There is a romanticism, a bohemian luster in utter

failure. The gutter of suburbia, where nothing ever happens. Where the new coffee flavor in the

coffee house is the news of the day. Where trash has to be taken out and dishes await to be

washed. Where life is just so, without ups and downs. Where you basically describe stagnation

and just sudden hiccups, short motions, short gallops. Writing is like producing a symphony, it is

about the cadences, the pauses, the rhythm. Melodies.

Wordcount is standing at 775.

7.

Nice, to be interviewed. Nope, this is not the big time as of yet, it is a New England campus in

the middle of nowhere, but it still is a notch on her list. Questions by an over-eager freshman, the

mic that does not work, not consistently that is. The questions are intelligent. She feels nauseous,

she should have had gin or vodka or bourbon in order to live thru the embarrassment. It is

3
embarrassing to talk about a book that is not good enough. And no book is good enough.

Besides, she writes about the everyday, the mall, that kind of thing. Lite fair. Nothing deep. She

stays away from the deeper questions, existential stuffi-muffi is not her forte. Her writing is

about coffee and chocolate, about light escapist fare. It is the literary equivalent of a yelp post, a

short one with a cute pic.

8.

925 words.

9.

A fast walk thru the mall, she parked next to the department store. The walk by the sweaters in

blue, and then it is down to the purses and the mascara. The perfumes. Out into the mall and

straight to the grocery place. They have a coffee place in there but no sandwiches. She picks out

a sandwich in the deli place, it has beef and cheddar. About five bucks. It is one of those diagonal

ones, not a wrap, not a fajita, burrito, whatever. Diagonal sandwich. Cheese, meat, tomatoes and

a hint of lettuce. Hardly any mayo. Mustard. She had banana bread and coffee and cream in the

morn and now it is a sandwich for lunch. If she goes to bed early, she can skip dinner and thus

there will be a calorie deficiency that ultimately will result in a weight loss of thirty pounds. Give

it time. 1076 words.

10.

Story-lines are overrated. Story arcs, huh, that is not how real life happens.

11.

She trained as an animator but she is no creator of Family Guy here.

4
12.

On the telly, it is Two and a Half Men. Laugh tracks.

13.

It is a rerun, they all are.

14.

1129 words.

15.

1132 words and counting. It is later in the day, after playing around with Instagram and after

buying one of those big sugar cookies from the Butter bakery, she might as well type some more.

It is still light outside what with daylight savings time. Yup, it is sunny longer here. She ponders

what she can read into this fact. Something philosophical maybe.

16.

Hawaii blocked Trumps travel ban. A judge there. The news is out of Boston, where it is now

eight. Not five as it is here on the west coast. Her writing, her writing.

17.

The life of a writer, maybe this is what this is all about. This is the way she will market this. Ah,

Charlie might not be interested, then again, he might be.

18.

Still some words and then she might go out once more. To the gym. She would love to have the

energy to move, to bike, to run on the treadmill. But she is kind of collapsing inside, you cannot

5
really will a cold out of your system. She has to stay put, even though it is boring. The telly will

entertain her and that should suffice here. A hot coffee would be good, in the coffee place on

Arbutus. When she writes, all she wants is to go and sit around coffee houses. The story of coffee

houses, maybe that is enough of a storyline here.

19.

1367 words. During National Novel Writing Month, she usually feeds 1700 words to the

machine each and every day. That will produce 50 000 words in one month.

20.

I am once more writing a book. Yup, this is her declaration to the world. It is February Sixteen,

nope, wait, March Sixteen and I am once more writing a book. At least this is what she tells

herself. Today is her second day of book writing. She hovers at eight in the morn around the

coffee house, watches people come and go. The person in front of her left his credit card in the

machine and the barista calls him out for that. Now there is a whole story in that. The narrative of

the bank card forgotten inside of the machine.

The day is reluctantly rainy, there is a ballet student in the shop. The book writer soaks in the

goings-on, she will splash that into the machine at a later point here.

1531 words.

21.

Lots of days have passed her by since her last writing stint. But maybe today is a good enough

day for producing some words here. She feels sick, too much Nutella and too much cheesecake.

Or what passes off as cheesecake in the Chinese bakery in the mall in the other city. The

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renovated one. Not the mall, the bakery. It is part of a chain and their cakes are fluffy and not too

sweet. There is a bakery like that in each and every mall in the Lower Mainland. Author ponders,

eating this much is not good. You have to bring the volume of your food intake down in order to

lose weight. Or exercise more. There has to be a calorie deficit. All her life she ponders how to

construct the perfect figure. It never works, she wanders thru this world as an overly chubby

creature. There is always too much polstering between bone and skin. Sometimes, some blessed

very short moments she reaches perfection but than it is back to the land of the fat. Writing about

dieting or non-dieting, for that matter, that should be her subject matter. That will position her

next to John Cheever and Hemingway. Norman Mailer. George Orwell. Oscar Wilde. The

virtuosos of the English language. Men, for the most part. Fitness and exercise, she will not

succumb to talking about girly stuff. Nope, she is a writer and writer can write about anything

and everything, the words are splashed at whatever, gender specific or nongenderspecific.

Besides, there are mags like Mens Health, if anything, men are more worried about their

waistlines than women. Besides, it is a medical issue, not a cosmetic one. Health. You can be a

health nut whoever you are. It is an equal opportunity endeavor, the quest for the perfect figure.

The perfect number on the scale. The one that will guarantee optimum life span. MDs die too.

She ponders, her writings about weight are not very logical. There are holes in her

arguments. As a fat person, you should just shut up. Your views do not count because your figure

shows that you are a failure at food intake. There is a right way of doing things and a wrong way

of doing things.

22.

It is rainy outside, drizzly, grey. A day for writing. A coffee house would be better, you can write

better in a coffee house. The words flow better. Here inside there is 2 Broke Girls and laugh

7
tracks. Alcohol is what makes the words fall in place. Beer, Schnapps. If you are non-drunk that

you are a lightweight in the world of literature. You are non-bohemian, non-romantic. You walk

in the mall before it opens up in order to lose weight. Mall walkers cannot be artistes. The

landscape of American literature is very well-defined, there are poets and non-poets. You cannot

be a chubby housewife that produces amazing word concoctions. You cannot mix words in the

right percentage. The right percentage, what does that even mean? The right amount of

prepositions per sentence. The good adverb. Oscar Wilde said that it took him one whole day to

put a comma in, only to use up another day to take the comma out. That is how art works. Yup,

lifes a bitch and then we die.

23.

She lives in the wrong city for art. New York, New York, Sinatra had it right. You have to leave

Hoboken. And every field has its Hoboken. You cannot make it if you are far away from the big

city. The metropolis. It can be St. Petersburg or the next village behind the hill. You cannot write

in boonytown, in Hicksville. You need to leave your own four walls in order to peddle your

wares. Be they words, ideas or paint on canvas. Her philosophical mumbo-jumbo is poorly

written. She used to be good, eloquent. A man of words. Maybe a woman of words. Those days

are gone. Now she merely hiccups, she is a caricature of her former self. Everything is going

straight downhill. The words cluster around, clump, holper onto the monitor.

24.

2234 words.

25.

2237.

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26.

DEADLINESZ. That is where it is @. If you do not have deadlines than you are a mere hobbyist.

James Taylor said that those fascinated hobbyists are the best, the ones who are driven by their

passions. But that might not be true, they will never become professional. If there are no

deadlines, then there is no real input. You cannot do the work without deadlines. Instagram

accounts are beautiful, they are driven by passion, all 500 million users the world over.

Profession versus passion. Huh.

27.

DEADLINES, at a later date she will explore that theme in depth. At this time, shed rather

watch Big Bang. Sheldon Cooper is never ever wrong.

28.

For some eerie reason both Seinfeld and Big Bang Theory have their oddball characters played

by lanky tall white guys with dark hair. Kramer and Sheldon. The world of sitcoms.

29.

She just partitions her words into little chunks and numbers the passages. Very impromptu

writings, this will not cut it, will not land her an agent in midtown. Her words will not be

published to the world, at least not in book form. Issuu and scribd will have to do and maybe that

is better. No crying trees for her here.

30.

2445.

31.

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How to be a philosopher king while watching Penny and Sheldon and eating Nutella. Spooning

Nutella straight out of the jar, the small one.

32.

So why is it not philosopher queen? Nietzsche lost his mind or did he? Well, you can google

everything, how did humanity exist before Wikipedia?

33.

She now has three Instagram accounts. Just saying.

34.

She could walk to the elegant liquor store on 41st and buy red wine and make that yummy red

wine cake.

35.

Somehow, this day is suffocating her, she is slowly and steadily losing her mind. It is the

greyness of the day, the constant greyness, of this city, the April showers that will bring May

flowers, eventually. The question is, how do you survive April without jumping of the next

bridge. Ah, the blues, da Bluez.

36.

Her writing is never up, it is there to bring the reader down. Writers sit in their lil chairs and

type, their fingers hurt, especially the knuckle of the right hand. And the majority of em is not

ambidextrous. This famous agent cum writer. Zuckerberg or something, posited that writing is

such a lonely profession, such a stationary lethargic one.

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37.

She quotes persons left and right and center, she is never right. The quotes are all skewed up.

Time to watch Comedians having Coffee in Cars.

38.

Sheldon Cooper in the DMV.

39.

2681.

40.

Aced it.

41.

2685.

42.

Back @ the computer to pen the masterpiece, her masterpiece. Outsides, still dreariness, the

dreariness that sets in on this day in April, the first third of April, the later half of the first. April

six, April seven. There is the thesis thingie at the art school, in the room on the second floor of

the north building. Young minds defending their projects, without legal counsel. My thesis, a

country 4 my thesis. They all have wonderful portfolios online, the right pics, not scattered stuff

all over the web. Everything housed nicely in one place, like an amazing portfolio in a black

case. The physical arranged virtually, brick and mortar digitally. Words are like that but they are

not. Hers will be a book, something between pages, 300 leaves of mulched trees, ready to take

11
with you wherever you want. Her life in ten volumes, her notes, her observations. The journal,

the journals. To be published posthumously.

She should go back to the world of the visual, what is she even doing in te world of words.

Performance, drama, writing. These are not her worlds, she puts down marks on surfaces. Mark

making, what a weird word, well, technically two works. De Kooning was a master marks man.

Art writing, yup, she could do that. Write lil ditties about the new masters, the old masters. Long

ago, she used to read those in the womans mag that was published back in her hometown. So

many many years ago.

In the morn she was in the coffee house. It was brimming at its seams, it was ten. People gather

around 4 some warm drink at exactly ten. They have breakfast at six, at eight, and at ten they

come together. People behind her were talking about children, coaching little league and the like.

A man who looked more like a pedophile than a trustworthy adult was spouting off about

pedagogy. In a grey black woolen coat, his hair was combed back as if he was David Bowie

getting ready to perform live.

A woman in dark glasses was waving author into the wrong parking space. Author bought a

wrap, Thai-something.

The gas station and the coffee house, this is where it is all happening. People between gigs,

between youth and the grave. There are three old peoples homes next to here, two or maybe

three. The supermarket is under construction, the dance place is open. This is suburbia or

something so next to it. The city that has the burbs hovering and flapping around. The rain that is

coming down and that can be heard thru the fireplace that never ever works. Once there was a

12
hapless squirrel caught in between chimney and the hole downstairs, its shrieks were frightening,

a man with a net came and rescued it. Happy endings here and we write, we type here.

The book writer and her book, a title as good as any.

43.

Later in the day but not late enough. The telly and its songs. The greenery outside and the little

dots of light against the slightly moving grasses. The poet and he laptop. How can you wax

poetically against the never-ending voice of Anderson Cooper? You need to watch ballet in order

to write beautiful word sequences. Author here reads thru yelp-reviews of pubs in her old

neighborhood, somewhere on the Eppendorfer Baum or the Eppendorfer Weg. You need a

kneipe, you need alcohol for fashioning the right amount of words, the right tone, the right tint.

Author read about books that explain the drunk writer as a myth, they write even though they are

drunks. But that is not how it is, you need the shakiness of a boozer to write well. If you are not

boozing then it follows that your writing is ah so subpar. She has now some 3000, some 4000

words here, she does not paint nor does she draw, hers is the writers studio, the writers lab. On

the telly, Rubio, little Rubio to quote Trump here. Degrading your opponents to get somewhere.

44.

3367 words here.

45.

The rain and how it is coming down. Storis to tell about that. The rain-ined coffee shop. Too

many people, too many cars. The bursting, the bustling coffee house. The woman, all blond, all

disapproving. Can you not churn your own damn cuppa joe? The drive back thru the rain, the

13
greyness and the one lowly yellow poncho rushing thru the down pur, next to green bushes,

green alleys. The sitting back here in front of the typer, fashioning immortal words that school

children in third grade will recite. Maybe ninth grade. A journal that somehow will make it to

ttype-setting, to publishing. Everybody can write a journal. But the trick is how to market tose

words. In the nite, she read about this woman who teaches at Princeton and who wrote so many

many books. Google authors and there are all kinds of ballads about em. The artistes, the one

that the internet notices. I was noticed on the web. Promote yourself wit a click of the mouse. It

is not even a mouse anymore, it is this bumping down on the rectangle beneath the keyboard, the

keyboard that someone purchased at Costco. Writing while the water is coming down, but in here

tere is nothing, the world has stood still, outside it is all ewarter pusing down, cars rushing tru,

peopke running after ot cupa joes and cuppa teas. Iin here, silenzio, and the gurgle of the

teamachine every now and then. Outside, there are people in the malls and people in the gyms,

there are buses to be taken, trains to be boarded, downtowns just waiting to be explored, airports

for hanging out. People, in transit, rushing purposefully from place A tp place B. the day before,

she was at a symposium, so many many owerpoints, so much to see, so much to listen to, it will

take years to digest this. The art school is exactly how author here left it, same people, nobody

ever ever leaves. A cult that will move to its new destination in late summer. Once the new model

is up here.

Her words, her writings. The coffee was seemingly hot, disturbingly hot. Hotter than usual.

There are many words to describe that, paint with words, why dont ya. There could be a

question mark or there could be afull stop after ya. She listened to this editor who talked about

discussing the finl version of catch 22 with joseph heller. We were like surgeons discussing what

to do next what is good for the patient which was the text. Robert gottlieb and joseph heller. You

14
do not need to write, you can just follow the great, that is what google is for. Handke, Nietzsche.

All men, always all men. And just in between, the woman in white on the third floor in Amherst.

Yup, she likes those stories, how is it that words are made. Who are those persons who write.

What do they have for coffee, which kind of blend. Favourite ice cream flavor. The people who

awrite. Ms oates chose to be a writer. Author here is no ms. Oates, writing chose her. Beckettt

used two languages, saadi did too. She knows a tad about writers but all the narratives mingle

together. Mish. In the middle of the nite she was all up and there was this repoptage about a

coffee shop that has thrirty kind of mish. You have mish while you wait for the train into the city.

These are the stories that the telly tells yer.

46.

On the telly, a food show. A woman, a spoon, spices, music in the back and her talking while

turning the spoon against the sparkly pot. Who cleans those pots and makes them that shiny?

Questions to ponder about, to write on.

The Saturday marches forward, the water from the heavens has seized to prassel down, slight

lights in the distance. Maybe the clouds will eventually let the sunb thru.

Author made her way to the gym and to the mall, so many many people in the mall, young ones

old ones and the woman behind the pizza counter said you are usually here in the morn. Well,

ten, but not today. Butterchicken, nope, give me garlic, with mushrooms. They have the bestest

pizza in town, very saucy and mozzrellayi. Pizza heaven. Thre is pizza and then there is pizza.

By the cinnebon place, thinking of c.k.lewiss bit about the cinnamon rolls. So funny, haha laugh

out lod-roaringly funny.

15
The movie plex, too full with humans, you need a tad less persons inside of the movie theater.

The woman talking about Punjabi cooking, some notes of cardamom, she is no nigella,

apparently. She is more a scholar, an anthropoigist and her voice does not have lows and highs. It

is as if she is selling aluminum siding.

47.

There is an antiquefair and an artfair, within walking distance. It is a Saturday, languidly,

languishing ly. Something with lang. there should be stuff one could do, go to the whiskeycorner,

whishkey pint, whiseyrow that the guy in the documentary about Chicago talked about. On the

telly, two and a half men, nope, two broke girls. Always something with two. Laughtracks here.

The sign of Williamsburg in the back. Verything next to Bedford station, get there on the L-train.

Not quite 5000 words yet.

48.

Later in the day. No more rain outside. A reluctant weather, a tad bright, but more in a muffled

way.

49.

Maybe she should call this the weightloss diaries. A journal of her weight loss journey. Not that

she has lost weight as of yet. The scale stands at 193 pounds. She should stand at 125 pounds. A

long journey. She started by getting up first thing in the morn, jumping into her car, having a

coffee and a small baked-goods thingie and then it was to the Y on fortyninth and the jumping

onto the fitness bike and thirty minutes of pedaling here.

50.

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After that it is up to the mall and mall walking. She schlepps herself around the place, she

manages eight times, though the goal was ten times. Her right knee is giving out, nope, make that

te left knee. She is not able to do it ten times. The knee hurts way too much. She has food too, a

sandwich, and icecream. Shee has had all the calories for the day, 1600, by ten in the morn. She

now can just type her stories and wait until it is the nesxt day, to once more do the exercise

thingie, to once more do the eating thingie. Portion control. That is fine, but is it really ok to have

all the portions in one sitting. Losing weight is weird and nobody really knows how it workds

here.

51.

A Sunday in front of the telly, cnn and gps, fareed Zakaria. The last seven minutes of it. Outside,

a tad more sunniness ten the day before. She has 4533 words, her amazingish master piece. This

will be up to 100 thou in no time hre. 100 000 words that she will send out to be published.

Nobody will publish it but that has nothing to do with the caliber of her writing here, the market

is just not yet ready for her amazing stuff. Her insights. Ahead by a century. That was the song

out of kinsgton.

52.

Lady gaga, the rolling stines, tere is some cdocumentary about people who sing into mics.

53.

The telly is ah so annoying here, somebody is listening to the message on the phone. Too many

sounds in here. Ashe has to go out into some coffee house, strangers with coffee make you write

amazingish texts. Your own four walls are not conducive to great stuff.

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54.

It is eleven ay em.

55.

4676.

56.

If she produces two pages per day, she will have a book of 300 pages in how many days? Writing

is all about math. How many words, the wordcount, ah. Somebody has to print thi put and bind it

and market it. She will just it in abookstore and sign her copies.

Publishing in the days of the digital. Publishing is dead, long live publishing. The big six are

alive and well, people still buy books. Books are still big biz. There are libraries everywhere,

universities. The knowledge industry. Author here definitely does not write knowledgeyish stuff,

this is not factbased rsearch. It is the accumulation of words, poeticish waxing. An amalgamation

of short utterings. Typed neatly from left to right. In English. Well, there is a market for this, a

competitive one. There are many many writers, so many many authors. Walk into any coffee

house in Chelsea, there are persons typing away. People with glsses and sans glasses. Four-eyes

and non-foureyes. Everybody who is anybody is penning a film script here. A play for broadway

or off-Broadway. Annefrank above o bowling alley. Author watched one too many big bang

episodes here. She overuses the word HERE. That happens always when she is out of stuff to

say.

57.

She has two pages, she can leave this here.

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58.

Sitting at the computer writing. The weather is nice. Ah, if you do not have anything to say but

you still have to produce some 2000 words here.

59.

A walk thru the neighbourhood, that should make yer write. Emily Dickinson, she just sat in her

room and te words came to her. On the telly, it is lsst man standing. That should cut it, describing

what is on TV.

60.

Amassing words, how can this go without having some hot everage that is white on top. Foam on

something beige. Macchiato, some other italianish word. Syllabylles that end in s definate O.

61.

She went down to the island and found a good enough parking space. She waited in the

community center. She killed time until it was next to twenty after eleven. The talk was supposed

to be at half past eleven. Facuty search for a teacher of film studies. She could not make herself

to watch it. There should be some mystery. We do not want to kknow how hamburgers are made,

we want the hamburger. Or something lie that. If you know how to make a film, you jinx it. Stuff

like that has to come by acciennt. You stumble upn it. You cannot teach art, you just sit tere and

make it. And filme making I so near to writing. The construction of a mnarrative. Nobody taugt

steven soielberg. He just made films, one after another. Woody allen, Hitchcock, francis

something coppola. Nowadays, goog le makes your photos into a movie. Automatically. You do

19
not teach that, you cannot teach that. Composing, dancing, you read, and then you write. You

look at the final product and then you do it.

It was not really that, she just felt that it woud be weird to sit in tere. So she left and came back

home, while the rain was coming down on the car.

On the telly, tim allen playing png png with the daughter who is into fashion.

62.

Still time to go out and do stuff. Get a coffee with foam thereon.

63.

5247.

64.

Flat white. The name of the drink that the very friendly woman slings behind the counter. You r

name. She misspells it. A falt white whatever that is. The lamps over the counter, on the side. The

other woman who waits for her drink. The evening crowd before closing time. All the coffee

drinks in this reststop on the way, somewhere on the road. She can write about that when she is

at home. A journey into the real world, some observations and then the hunched-over existence

and the typing. How to sling words how to sling drinks. How to be good at it. For instant

consumtion. There is not much you can do wrong with a drink, there is a lot to do wrong with

words. Drinks can kill, words, not that much. So her stement is wrong, non-true. Her sentences

and illogic.

20
Tere are writing residencies. Yaddo. They teach you how to write. How to put the words together.

Can you teach that? Nope, you cannot. There are always as many reasons for inserting a comma

as tehre are for leaving it out.

65.

The trek down to the coffee house. So much to see. Enough for a book. Different caars, different

persons. One could take photos, put them on Instagram. A photoreportage. Somebody comes in

and tehre is a short conversation. A pause in the words here. On the telly, the weather guy outta

boston, with glasses and too much fat. Lose some weight if you are in broadcasting. If you are

the one in front of the camera you should not look wordse tan the person behind the camera.

66.

Yup, these are her insights on a balmy april eve. April ten. wIthlots of showers.

67.

Once more the description of the drive down to the coffee house. The scratch near the window

on the car door.

68.

Still some more words here. While the news is playing. The cell phone video of the man who

was dragged off a plane.

69.

Pick up where you left off 16 minutes ago. This is how writing goes these days. She read

something about Sartre and Nabokov, written 1n 1972, by carol oates. Wow, so many years ago.

Literature is the art that just stands still. She watched a short promotional film with a catchy

21
music for a photographer, though she seemed to be more comfortable in font of the camera.

There was a movie about drama in the culdesac and it was disgusting. And on the telly, it is all

about the weather in boston. The weather in boston in april. Lakeshore. Maybe it is Chicago. Ah,

writing here. 5690 words. Later on, she will go in and iron out the glitches. Then she will send

this out. And thenn she will be rejected. And then it is back to rhe drawing board hre. Gives us

something to do.

70.

First thing in the morning, the news outta nyc and the tping at the laptop. It is april eleven and

she has some 5000 words, she needs some 95 000 more. Twenty times what she did this month.

Which will be when? whaen will this be finished? When the weather is warm, maybe even hot.

Then this journal will come to an end. She will write about tea places and about coffee places.

Nothing more, nothing serious. Kjust a description of places where tey serve you hot bevs. Not

ecven alcoholic stuff. Nope, nothing strnger than caffeine or teine. That will be enough, will be

sufficient. This tues day morning that is what they talk about on the telly. It is about Brooklyn

and about new jersey. Once more the united airlines dragging off of te passenger who was a

doctor. A woman in red on the tel.lly, some indian lady.

71.

It is eight in nyc, 5 here in vancitay. 4:55 on the westcoast here. 7:55 on the eat coast.

72.

Once more the news anchor in Australia who was caught on camera while playing with

something, a hairband, a pen.

22
73.

Nobunny knows easter better than Cadbury here.

74.

5912.

75.

Later on she will go down to the coffee house and to the art school and to the gym. All of these

places to find stuff to write about.

76.

April eleven, apparently, the weather is nice in the city. New York city. In the sixties, nicer than

usuak at this time of the year. Cold front tomorrow.

77,

5993.

78.

Maybe, she should go down to the artschool in oreder to listen in to the presentation by the

person who wants to teach at the art school. People are applying for a position in the film studies

program. This is the last of four presentations by potential candidates, make that real candidates.

Faculty search presentation. Shortlisted candidates. It is interesting because what do teachers of

film talk about. How do thses people try to teach students how to make movies. Author here

merely uses films, she has no clue whow they are made.

79.

23
A man without hair on the telly. Bald ancors are the rage.

80.

Something about rikers island.

81.

Something anbout amtrack and p;penn station.

82.

She had her hot coffee and is back where she left off one hour ago. The computer knows, it tells

her where she has left off. how did writers do it before word. When they had to use longhand. Or

a typewriter. Did they write different stuff, words that were influenced by the tool the author

uses. Does the software make for btter words, for better grammar. Or does it only make the

words more bitter. Some people use Dictaphones, they talk into a mic and the computer buids it

into letters on a monitor. There are different ways to do this. Author here has no plot, she just

describes her writing process. The coffee house, this time it was the one on forty-first. The usual

suspects were there, everyone has the same morning routine. Author wanted to go down to the

gym, but then she chose to break her habit. She came back to the typing machine. She could go

for a walk, fresh air might make for better exercise. Or mall walking, a walk thru the mall. Later

on she could go down to the art school for a presentation, the filmstudies person will talk at half

past eleven here.

83.

6317.

84.

24
She has two different glasses to chose from. She could write about that, describe it. Frames of

galsses. Dark framed ones and the ones, that do not have any frames. Describing the physical is

the toughest. She feels like still another coffee, still another coffee house. Anything to avoid

typing. Because the words never ever really klink into place, they are all vague and wishy-washy.

Sometimes they are eloquent and elegant without even trying, at other times they are just

horrible. It is the luck of the draw. A walk thru the early morn migt help, then again, it is kind of

demeaning, walking thru the neighbourhood, while all the cars are lined up to bring people to

offices. Real people with real jobs. As George Costanza said, they are people with jobs. They are

intimidating, they have a purpose to liv. They will be compensated by the end of the month. Hers

is not like that, she writes, and most likel her words will be rejected. Even if they are the best of

the best. Yup, that is how the cookie rolls here, regrettably.

A coffee, a flat white. With skim milk and without caffeine. That is how they drink coffee down

under.

Her hair is falling out in bushels, just saying.

85.

6533.

86.

She could go to oakridge, park her car on the rooftop, meander down into the mall, walk straight

to the entrance next to crate and barrel, which is now where the movie theater used to be mny

many years ago. Then into the station and down to waterfront. Downtown will do her good, all

those nameless faces, the sardinelike existence in the moving train. That is what makes a writer a

writer. Watching life as it unfolds. The street that tells its stories to her. Life in the big city, even

25
though, technically, this is a small city. It is not new York, London, tokio, shanhai. Somewhere in

the boonies.

But city is city, it all looks like the black and white movie that you will see on the screen in the

apple store. A city is a city is a city is a city. Staten Island is never ever far away.

87.

She could explain what she means by that. New Amsterdam became, for better or for worse, the

quintessential city. The epitome of the metropolis. It ranked out st. Petersburg, it overthrew

Rome. New York is what a city looks like. It is after all where sein feld is happening. Kramer

cannolt be wrong. Author here watches way too much TV.

88.

The stories of the city, the songs of the city. Eternalized in film, song, movies. The creation of the

city in Hollywood. Where was breakfast in tiffany filmed? In lala land? Where was lala land

filmed, on long island? It is always fiction, always fiction. Even her writing about the coffee

house on forty-first is fiction, it is happening long after the actual slurping of the cuppajoe with

ahint of cream is over, it is all reconstructed out of memory. When you talk about something, the

moment is over. Time-based, what a weird, weird word here.

89.

6848.

90.

Sleepiness after watching the first episode opening of portlandia and a movie about why people

move to Portland.

26
91.

Living on facebook, that will not write your amazing breakout novel.

92.

The novel that basically describes stagnatin. And flat white, the drink that she has just discovered

the day b4.

93.

6899, so near to 7000.

94.

Some morw words. After hanging out online. After watching these reels by this really talented

film maker. There are tons of them, all you need is a laptop and you can watch the talent of the

world. People are really good with movie making and taking opics. Everybody is honing their

talent. You can write abook, direct a movie, make music and ppst it all online. Free and so very

good content. The pwople who do this as a hobby, in beteen their shitty dayjobs. The shitty

dayjob helps you make good art. You do not even eneed artschool, art school will bury your

efforts as an artiste.

95.

7014.

96.

Now Anderson Cooper. At five in the eve. Five-thirty. Well, one could argue that it is still

afternoon here. When does the afternoon let out and when does the evening start up? It is time to

27
go down to the coffee house and have a flat white. Flat white is so delish. Not that she ever had

one before yesterday eve. Apparently it is an Australian, newzealandy kind of thing. For her they

are both interchangeable, they are in the same neighbourhood. Apparently the whole craze

started in wellington. Anyhoo, the beverage was great, but maybe she had enough calories for the

day. A wrap with tuna, a piece of cake. Bread and butter and dates and walnuts. A piece of

bananloaf, banana bread. 1500 calories easy. You do not need more to survive. She walked a lot,

but still. She does not really want to lose but she does not want to gain either. This is the

maintenance stage apparently. She can stay this chubby, her skin looks nicer like this. If she loses

weight, she will need a face-lift, botox. Like this it is just fine with the features. It is a science, no

way around that. Tru that.

She listened to the film studies prof at lunchtime. Was very good, \very nice. Except for the

woman who ate so very loudly, she smushed her silverfork against the glass container. Eat

silently please, the smell is enough to kill us here. The talk though was superb.

97.

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