THE BOOK WRITER AND HER BOOK

book one

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 more so than usual. 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 the place 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

1
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 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.

2
4.

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 on 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

3
nauseous, she should have had gin or vodka or bourbon in order to live thru the embarrassment.

It is 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 deficit 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.

4
She trained as an animator but she is no creator of Family Guy here.

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.

5
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

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.

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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

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 then 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 writers 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.

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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

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

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.

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2234 words.

25.

2237.

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.

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30.

2445.

31.

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 off the next

bridge. Ah, the blues, da Bluez.

36.

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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.

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. Outside, 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

11
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 cardboards, 300 leaves of mulched trees, ready to

take 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 the 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 words. 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

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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

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 her 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.

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The rain and how it is coming down. Stories to tell about that. The rain-inned 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

greyness and the one lowly yellow poncho rushing thru the downpour, 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

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

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 with 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 there is nothing, the world has stood still, outside it is all water pushing down, cars rushing

thru, people running after hot cuppa joes and cuppa teas. In here, silenzio, and the gurgle of the

tea machine 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 to place B. The day before,

she was at a symposium, so many many PowerPoints, 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

14
question mark or there could be a full stop after ya. She listened to this editor who talked about

discussing the final 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 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? Favorite ice cream

flavor? The people who awrite. Ms. Oates chose to be a writer. Author here is no Ms. Oates,

writing chose her. Beckett 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 reportage about a coffee shop that has thirty 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 sun 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. Butter chicken, nope, give me garlic, with mushrooms. They have the bestest

pizza in town, very saucy and mozzarellayi. Pizza heaven. There is pizza and then there is pizza.

15
By the Cinnabon place, thinking of Louis C.K.s bit about the cinnamon rolls. So funny, haha

laugh out loud-roaringly funny.

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 anthropolinguist and her voice does not have lows and

highs. It is as if she is selling aluminum siding.

47.

There is an antique fair and an art fair, within walking distance. It is a Saturday, languidly,

languishingly. Something with lang. There should be stuff one could do, go to the whiskey

corner, whiskey pint, whiskey row 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. Everything 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

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

onto the fitness bike and thirty minutes of pedaling here.

50.

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

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

sandwich, and ice-cream. She 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 next 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 works

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 than the day before. She has 4533 words, her amazingish master

piece. This will be up to 100 thou in no time here. 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 Kingston.

52.

Lady Gaga, the Rolling Stones, there is some documentary about people who sing into mics.

53.

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

sounds in here. She 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.

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 this out

and bind it and market it. She will just sit in a bookstore 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 fact-based research. 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 glasses and sans

glasses. Four-eyes and non-four-eyes. Everybody who is anybody is penning a film script here.

A play for Broadway or off-Broadway. Anne Frank above a bowling alley. Author watched one

18
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.

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 neighborhood, that should make yer write. Emily Dickinson, she just sat in her

room and the words came to her. On the telly, it is Last Man Standing. That should cut it,

describing what is on TV.

60.

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

on something beige. Macchiato, some other Italianish word. Syllables that end in a definite 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. Faculty 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 know how hamburgers are made,

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

Stuff like that has to come by accident. You stumble upon it. You cannot teach art, you just sit

19
there and make it. And film making is so near to writing. The construction of a narrative.

Nobody taught Steven Spielberg. He just made films, one after another. Woody Allen,

Hitchcock, Francis something Coppola. Nowadays, google makes your photos into a movie.

Automatically. You do 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 would be weird to sit in there. So she left and came back

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

On the telly, Tim Allen playing ping pong 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. Your

name. She misspells it. A flat 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 rest stop 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

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

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

and illogic.

There 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 there are for leaving it out.

65.

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

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

and there 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 worse than the person behind the camera.

66.

Yup, these are her insights on a balmy April eve. April ten. With lots 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.

21
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

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

There was a movie about drama in the cul-de-sac 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 then she will be rejected. And then it is back to the drawing board here. Gives

us something to do.

70.

First thing in the morning, the news outta nyc and the typing 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? When 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. Just a description of places where they serve you hot bevs. Not

even alcoholic stuff. Nope, nothing stronger than caffeine or theine. That will be enough, will be

sufficient. This Tuesday 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 the passenger who was a

doctor. A woman in red on the telly, some Indian lady.

71.

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

72.

22
Once more the news anchor in Australia who was caught on camera while playing with

something, a hairband, a pen.

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

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

77,

5993.

78.

Maybe, she should go down to the artschool in order 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

23
film talk about. How do these people try to teach students how to make movies. Author here

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

79.

A man without hair on the telly. Bald anchors are the rage.

80.

Something about Rikers Island.

81.

Something about Amtrak and 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 better 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 builds 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 film studies person will talk

at half past eleven here.

24
83.

6317.

84.

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

glasses. 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 might help, then again, it is kind

of demeaning, walking thru the neighborhood, 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 live. They will be compensated by the end of the month. Her

life is not like that, she writes, and most likely 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.

25
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 many

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

though, technically, this is a small city. It is not New York, London, Tokyo, Shanghai.

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 Seinfeld is happening. Kramer

cannot 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 at Tiffanys filmed? In La La Land? Where was La

La 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 cuppa

joe with a hint 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.

26
6848.

90.

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

move to Portland.

91.

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

92.

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

discovered the day b4.

93.

6899, so near to 7000.

94.

Some more 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 pics. Everybody is honing their

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

good content. The people who do this as a hobby, in-between their shitty day jobs. The shitty day

job helps you make good art. You do not even need art school, art school will bury your efforts

as an artiste.

95.

27
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

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, New Zealandy kind of thing. For her,

they are both interchangeable, they are in the same neighborhood. 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

banana loaf, 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 silver fork against the glass container. Eat

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

97.

Still again the United flight vid. Well, it is definitely the news of the day, especially because

everybody flies and this could have happened to each of us. Yup, that could have been me is

what everybody who sees the news thinks. United is ruined, good luck coming back from that

kind of PR-disaster. The stock just fell down into an abyss.

28
98.

On the telly, a very good looking senior talking about a medication for seniors. Hate to tell it to

you, zero point zero zero one percent of the population looks like that. Especially seniors.

99.

Once more, Anderson Cooper. And the United flite thingie. Too little too late, that is how it is

with the apology by United.

100.

And the initial apology made things worse. Yep, that is how it is. The unbridled mess.

101.

7404. So, can we write good stuff without a flat white here? Without gin, rum, vermouth? While

sitting still in a room. Come the words to yer just like that? By the gods whispering into yer ear.

Nope. You have to move around, you have to move thru space. Stagnation makes the words

stand still. If the only part of your body are your hands that type, it is tough to compose the right

words. Pianists do it, but they practice each and every day. Author here types for chunks of time,

two months or so, but not the whole year. And she just writes like two hours per day. And her

writings are free flowing. Stream of conscience bits. Ditties. Wow, this much negativity will not

do it. You have to cheer yourself up. Like Woody Boyd on Cheers, u-s-a, u-s-a. That was quite a

funny scene. This French guy is about to be deported, and after he leaves the bar, Woody says,

what country will make a guy like that leave and a guy like Woody stay. He asks that question

and then he answers it himself. I will tell you which country- U-S-A, U-S-A. It is really funny,

basically it says good that the competition is leaving. There was this other movie online which

29
was very funny too, it mused about people coming to Oregon, and there was this scene where it

said that good-looking guys are coming from other states and thus the dating pool gets out of

whack for the original Portlanders. Yup, immigration is serious, but it is more funny if it is

tackled like this.

102.

5676, nope, 7678.

103.

Seven minutes after seven here. No flat white, she has to drag the car out and drive down to the

coffee place just to get a coffee. not a good idea, better to just sit put and forego the cuppa joe. It

is nightienight anyways, or moreso, impending nightie-night. Beer, wine, vodka, maybe that will

do it. Writers are hard drinkers, that is how it is. The daughter of the late Cheever wants you to

believe otherwise, but poets the world over sing songs about alcohol. The right drinks will make

for the right words. You have to be male and you have to be good with hard liquor. You cannot

be female and dainty and drink tea. Women suck at writing, they do not have what it takes. Talk

about self-hate here, crippling self-hate. We cannot do this, we have the wrong pedigree. The

wrong gender. But, let us face it, women in the West usually write about womanly stuff,

emotions, the like. At least, that is how they get published and the publishing industry is in the

hand of men. Yup, let us just blame the boys, if we do not find a publisher here. It is easier than

to buckle up and write better words here.

104.

7891.

30
105.

She should drive-thru, authors live on a steady diet of Big Macs. Yyup, why not. Coffee and Big

Macs, junk food is good 4 poetry. The dissonance between junk food and elegant words. The

disconnect. The worse your diet, the better your words. Yup, lets go with that.

106.

The filmmaker guy was really good. He was rail-thin though, he has not seen a good meal in

ages. His story was that he came to Canada in 1983 with 100 dollars in his back pocket and it

seems that he is still starving. A starving artiste. Thin artists are more believable, the underfed

ones.

107.

Two women and one guy on the telly. The remote is somewhere, well, remote. She is looking

around and cannot find it.

108.

Trump has lost weight, though others are of the opinion that he is just a different shade of

orange.

109.

Its ten twenty on the east coast, and a guy calls him Mr. Trump. Those are the Trumpians. He

does everything completely opposite from his campaign words. Bad, to quote him. Sad. The anti-

Trump group should twitter with exactly the same fervor, dispensing opinion in two or three

words here. Yup, his politics suck. Author listens to Ron Paul and what he had to say about

Trumps politics.

31
110.

8109.

111.

Nine oh five.

112.

Playing around with the computer.

113.

And now it is too late for flat white. At least if one goes out to the coffee house on Arbutus. The

other one on Forty-first is open till eleven and it is usually pretty crowded at this time of the day.

Until closing time here. The market down on Forty-first is open till twelve. The liquor store till

eleven. It is best to sit in here, while the telly sings its songs. Night life in front of the telly, as

great as any nightlife.

114.

The bookwriter and her book. That is the title of this text at this time. The working title. It might

change, it will change, it should change. It does not have enough umph. As of yet here.

115.

Still CNN. Reruns here.

116.

Welcome back. That is what the software tells yer.

32
117.

8260.

118.

A fictional coffee place. In Amsterdam. She ponders, does not remember having coffee in

Amsterdam. She had superbig crepes with sugar and lemon juice. And coffee. The waiters were

both very tall and one of them yelled extremely loud. An actor maybe, he loves to use his voice.

Author here did a lot of writing in that place. Poffertjes, that is what those little puffy donut hole

like pancakes were called. Maybe she had those. But she remembers the crepe and the waiter

with the loud voice and the white apron like skirt like fabric over his black pants. She must have

had coffee, obviously. She had a lot of espressos, doppio espressos.

119.

Maybe it should be irrelevant where the coffee house is. It should have heavy curtains. She

looked at images of different coffeehouses. There is this Dutch chocolate house in Germany, the

cacao looked just beautiful. So did the cake.

120.

She doodles with words. Maybe her name should be word doodler. The word doodler and her

words. Just saying.

121.

What kind of person sits in her room and writes? What kind of person sits in her room and reads?

What kind of person takes selfies?

122.

33
Twenty-two minutes ago she did the last journal-entry, the last DEAR DIARY words, it feels

like much less time has passed, but the software cannot be wrong, apparently it took her some

twenty-two minutes, to walk into the pouring rain, position herself in the drivers seat after once

more taking a glance at the long scratch on the door of the drivers seat, after that, the drive

down to the coffee house, the parking in the so very tight spot, she is basically parked diagonally

because there is not enough space for a real parallel, after that the order of coffee and tuna

sandwich and the woman reminding her that she wants a banana bread, the young man forgetting

her coffee, the Chinese one, who will go on to become a doctor or a nurse because that is his

demeanor, author then sitting and having her coffee near the window, after the too portly too

messy guy left, her looking at the recycling bin, which now has three openings whereas those

bins used to have four openings, the new models are different and what do they do with the old

bins, recycle them or throw them in the landfill, her thinking that she could have her coffee back

in her own place while watching Friends, though it might be King of Queens, and Friends is

over, does she really need to watch Joey and Rachel and the rest of em to start her day, the

pondering if she should go down to the art skool to look at the books in the art fair, the zines and

what are zines anyways, magazines that are self-made and non-edited, they are not books, -ooks

could be short 4 books, the reason why there are so many zines is that there are so many

producers of texts, so they have to be sold in little fairs the world over, people organize fairs like

they organize farmers markets, professionals that know how to organize a group of people,

teachers, camp leaders, generals, the people in the library like to organize stuff, try their hands at

organizing here. She has to go now in order to find a parking space, it is raining, so everybody

needs a parking space, people are not walking or biking, it is hump day, Wednesday, the day in

the middle of the week, she is not wearing a bra, a look that is not good if you are sixty-two, not

34
quite, the rain is so coming down, so coming down. She is looking for reasons to not drive down

to the art skool, she is not a student anymore and the Welcome Back Kotter element scares the

heebie-jeebies outta her, there are better artist book markets, all over the world, this one is too

small, it is just books arranged on the light table behind where the slides used to be or still are.

The big light table with all those little knobs that you push up and then the light goes on, people

used them to look at the slides, so that they could choose the slides they needed for slide

projections, when slide projectors were the thing, and when you rented a slide projector from the

AV. Lost technologies, that is what she learned in art skool. Nothing about art, the teachings

were basically irrelevant here.

123.

She wrote her two pages already, give some, take some.

124.

When you take a foto of yourself, the guy shows it, the contestants yell SELFIE. It is this quiz

show and they are all like that, people try to paraphrase a term and the others try to guess it and if

they get it, they jump up and down, and if they dont get it, well, then they do not jump up and

down. Author here sits and describes what is going on on the telly, she is no couch potato, after

all she does sit in a chair and types. And a human being is not a potato. We have 9126 words

here, she might still drive down to the art school in order to park in time. The persons, the people

are kind of annoying, the socializing, the forced one with total strangers. They are not really

strangers, she has met all of them, though, some seven years ago. She left that place some seven

years ago and one thing is clear, she never ever made it in the art world, mainly because the art

world is a world in which you cannot make it. The world of writing seems more permeable,

35
mainly because you do not need storage space for your writings, you store your inventory in the

cloud. If these were sculptures you would need a warehouse on the outskirts of town here.

125.

9255.

126.

Friends is on and she should make her way down to the art school. The library zine sale is on

until two and it is now twelve and forty-seven minutes here. Or she could just sit put and type all

of these words, feed little ditties to a machine that is waiting passively here.

127.

6312.

128.

Sorry, 9315.

129.

Actually, 9317.

130.

Go back to where u left off an hour ago. So weird. She thought that it is much later. Time

compressed. In the morn she thought that 20 minutes was much shorter and now she thought that

this one hour was actually three hours. So much happened in one hour. She drove down the street

and looked at all of the trees, they were beautiful, all in bloom while the rain was coming down.

Like soaked pastel colored feathers. She wanted to go home to describe this, forget about the

36
artist book sale in the library on the island. The one in the art skool. Then she turned into the big

mall parking lot, walked thru the walkway, into the market, well, what is left of the market while

renovations are going on. They did not have cream, only half and half. Or coffee cramer, coffee

creamer. She wanted to make whipped cream, who knows if you can do that with half and half.

If you can whip it. Anyhoo, long story short, she went down to the art skool and is now in front

of the telly, laughtracks and Two and a Half Men here.

131.

9517.

132.

She will describe short episodes of her trek down to the island later. The shortbreads in the

market. Yup, that is literature, describe the evry-day. So that readers can relate. Ah, her writing

sucks here. There were so many people at the art school sale, it was crowded and all the books

were nice. Diverse. Everything from thick folders for the curriculum of industrial design, to

books made out of felt, a little book that looked like a cellphone and an egg carton with golf balls

therein. Each of them had one letter thereon. Paper on a string like a row of shirts on a

clothesline. All ways to put down the physical word. There were books that looked like the

books that she produces, made by Kinkos, bound by Kinkos. That is, how author here makes

her words into books. At this point she has 9660 of them, of words, not books, next to ten thou in

the year 2017. Her first text this year. Last year at this time she had written much more, though

mostly essays for her American lit class at the college on Forty-first. That was some class.

American literature, which was weird, why is it not called literature in the English language. Do

the people that write that stuff have to hold an American passport? What if they are stateless and

37
they write? Ah, whatever here. Berta on the telly and laughtracks. Alan and the secretary.

Melissa. Her mom is the woman who was in Designing Women.

Now the mother, Evelyn. Now, Charlie.

133.

In life sometimes you meet people who completely change your life. Those persons are called

bartenders. Yup, this is what the sign in front of the bar on the way to the library said. Where the

happy hour is from three to six, most happy hours the world over are. And the rain was drizzling

down, great, she found a parking space and did not have to pay. The free parking space. She

backs out and some other car is waiting for the space. She could have a flat white when coming

back but maybe she should wait. She had one thousand calories already, the shot of cream in her

coffee and the wrap of tuna, Thai tuna, and the piece of banana cake here.

134.

9901.

135.

Next day it will be the thirteenth of the month. There is a media show in the art skool. Ah the art

skool, she was there and then got her piece of paper.

136.

6937.

137.

38
Two and forty-seven in the afternoon. Fifty more words and we are at ten thou. More

descriptions of the walk thru the market. The half and half, the chocolate, the gingersnaps. The

choice to put it all back and walk out of the store. The choice to have the home-made diet food

instead, all veggies fish and rice here. But it has a bad lemony aftertaste that does not seem to go

away. Creamy coffee is definitely better, it makes you feel happy and fulfilled. Maybe dieting is

not the way to go.

138.

10031.

139.

Chelsea and Charlie and the woman who is the psychologist here.

140.

On the telly, Law and Order. And now Trump, the usual. Author here typing, outside, a mellow

weather with the sun somehow behind the clouds. Writing against the noise of the telly. A coffee

house would be better, all those people sipping their drinks here. While the cars are going by on

the streets, while the rain is coming down. While passers-by are rushing by in colorful umbrellas.

Author here is not taking the train these days, which is kind of in the way of her writing.

Peoplewatching is what makes yer write. Motion, just the motion on the telly is not enough. She

should take up running, moving awakes those writing muscles.

141.

10 159.

142.

39
So, she has 10 000, she needs do write nine times this and she will be done. Her book for the

year. It will hold her thru November when it is National Novel Writing Month once more here.

143.

Apparently, today is national cheese sandwich day. Grilled cheese day. National grilled cheese

day. There are about 70 000 instagrampics for that hashtag. All kinds of images of grilled cheese.

Something called welsh rabbit, whatever that is. Author here should go down to the coffee place

and have a flat white. She ponders, if anybody wants to read about all of this. Probably not.

Which does not make her stop writing. You have to feed the words to the typing machine here.

144.

Pick up where you left off 1 hour ago. The software makes yer write. On the telly, people talking

about Trump. Not very interesting, it is always the same here.

145.

Pick up where u left off 14 minutes ago.

Pick up where u left off 5 minutes ago.

So this is how it is. People on the telly talking. This guy used to be much younger but equally

ugly and annoying.

The day is coming to an end, it is getting dark but it is not as of yet here.

146.

Eight oh nine here.

147.

40
10 380.

148.

Pick up where you left off 19 minutes ago. So this is how we fill the pages here. It is not enough,

not enough for a book. Too much repetition, too much talking of how the sausage is made.

149.

She browses different websites at once, differing twitter accounts, the link goes to a New York

Times article and suddenly the computers shuts down, this is how you do research these days,

you go from link to link, you are a true flaneur and you never ever know where you end up.

There was something about writing and then it suddenly went blank here.

150.

Pick up where you left off: Yesterday.

The written word. Thinking about it keeps her up at night, makes her come down to the room

with the telly and the green couch. It is PIX11 outta nyc, it must be eight in the morn over there,

the weather is nice a happy healthy Thursday in the city. They do not have Good Friday over

there, well, they do, but it is not a statutory holiday like it is in Canada, it is one religious holiday

like many, like Passover, like Ramadan, Eyd, like Kwanza. Let joy run free, the ad on the telly, it

is an ad for visit.orlando, a kid on the shoulders of a parent. Author here types, writes, reads up

on Nabokov and Kafka, their careers, the posthumous literary executors, Max Brod, Dmitri

Nabokov, somehow, the making of a literary great is always interesting, this is what they teach in

literary history, nowadays you can google anything and everything. Nabokov wrote mostly in

41
English, the language of a book, interesting here. It is five and twenty-eight, time to type up still

some more words, before making ones way down to the coffee house, down to the gym on 49th.

151.

Well, she produced half a page already, she just needs one and a half page more and her work

here is done. Two pages per day, yup, two pages per day here.

152.

No plot yet, there has to be a plot. Otherwise it is merely a Dear Diary project here. That will not

cut it, cannot cut it here.

153.

Irrelevant musings of an anyperson, nothing to write bout, nothing to read about.

154.

Pick up where u left off: 4 hours ago.

155.

And what happened in the last 4 hours. She went down to the coffee shop and had a coffee and a

loaf of banana bread. A slice. They call it banana loaf. It was dark outside and a bus was standing

in front of the coffee house. It said on the outside that it is not in service. NIS. The person inside

was cleaning the bus. Anyhoo, after coffee and after walking by Bean Bros which was not even

open yet, she went down to the gym and biked for 30 minutes. For some reason the woman next

to her did not sit on one of the bikes that are further away, she sat just next to author. Which is

always weird, why do you leave all the empty seats and crowd me here. After the gym and the

weight at 190.8 which is better than two days ago but worse than two weeks ago, it is down to

42
the mall. Then it is mall walking and taking photographs in order to look at the pics and write

about them. Like documenting reality. The windows of the stores, the seat next to the pharmacy.

The woman who asks her if she is using the blood pressure cuff. Nope, why? There are ppl who

like to check their blood pressure as obsessively as author here likes to check her weight.

156.

She is now back in front of the telly and is typing her magnus opus, sorry, magnum opus. The

master piece, yup, that one. So, apparently, Beckett wrote in French and Nabokov wrote in

English, she knows more authors who write in different languages. So, that should be easy-peasy

here.

157.

The plot is a non-plot. That too is doable. The life of a writer.

158.

11 073.

159.

Pick up where you left off 3 hours ago. After watching tons of telly. And now it is Mike and

Molly. A rerun and they are all reruns. Outside the sun is shining, reluctantly.

160.

11111 words. Quite a text. This is what we came up with in one month. Since the beginning of

March. Ok, so, maybe some forty days. A novel it aint, but a Dear Diary project it is. A Dear

Diary affair. Journal, protocol, something like that. She could go down to the market and take

pics. The Instagram software does not work but that is ok. Her pics will be stored on google

43
drive. There are 6000 pics already, and some more in that other cloud dropbox thingie. Author is

not quite sure if all of the pics are in the same place. It is all kind of complicated here.

161.

Pickupwhereuleftoff.

162.

Pick up where you left off 2 hours ago. So two pages of jibber jabber.

163.

Pick up where you left off: 9 minutes ago.

On the telly, Two and a Half Men. A rerun. And as we mentioned b4, they are all reruns. So the

writing does not go that well, especially bcause she feels like using abbreviations. This is not

social media. You have to use round nice words with all the letters that Merriam Webster wants

you to use.

164.

11307 words and still no plot. There was a media show at the art school, for two hours and in

two different places. She could not make it, besides there is always something on the telly. All

media.

165.

On a Friday, Good Friday. It is a holiday here in Vancouver, not in the States though. There will

be brunch later on, it is coolish outside, a slight movement in the tree tops. No sun shining but

you know that it is there somewhere in the distance behind all those clouds here. Wisps of

44
sunshine, wafts of sun. she paints with the language in order to kill time until it is the moment to

leave down to Olympic Village to the egg cake place near where you usually cannot find parking

spaces here.

The monitor is weird, one should use the lights above so that one can see the letters better. The

light from the computer itself is not enough, it feels annoying. As if it is night but it is not. Her

words are just so, they do not do what they should do. Not a good day for writing, so it seems,

ah, so it seems. In the old times, writers would just write without constantly checking the

wordcount, maybe substance was important, not quantity. Writing is not a marathon, so it seems,

so it seems. Not an Olympic sport, higher, faster.

166.

11539.

167.

Such nice weather. People are flocking to the church on the other side of the street, to the

Hellenic center. The Greek-Orthodox place, it is Good Friday after all. Friday mass.

Starbucks fills up, people have nothing to do and hang out at the coffee place. Author here

deletes pics because she needs storage place. There are two places, the camera roll and the photo

stream. They do not contain the same pics. Author has no clue how this works but one thing was

clear she was not able to take pics at the brunch place. Even though she was deleting but

apparently she has to delete photos from both places. Ah, who understands how technology

works here.

168.

45
What to write about here? What to write about? The coffee places that are filling up with people,

students who work on their assignments, people like her who play with their phones, family

reunion people that hang out and hang out here.

169.

Now the news outta Boston. At eight. So it is eight over there while it is five here. Author here

has had too much food, a tacothingie and crepe with whip and peach melba.

170.

Aaron Hernandez acquitted. Though apparently he is behind bars for another murder.

171.

Outside the sun is shining. One could go out for another walk because how can you really sit

inside while the weather is ah so nice here. Write a book, tinker with all of these words.

172.

11 786.

173.

So near to 12 000.

174.

Pick up where you left off 30 minute ago. She took a lot of photos which she sent to her email

account and then it was saved to the computer and then the picture is automatically saved in her

google drive. There are near to 7000 pictures in that drive. She should go to Safeway which is

kind of closed for renovation, so you walk thru some walkway which looks industrial and

46
interesting. The perfect place to take pictures, the industrial warehouse look that has this matte

glimmer and the architectural industrial look of something that is still raw and has the potential

to be built into something amazing. Industrial look, whiffs of construction. It looks good as a

photo. It has this urban whiff. Boy, can you talk trash here. 11 926 words, she is doing this near

to one month here, 10 000 words in a month, good that this is not November what with

nanowrimo and the obligatory 50 000 that have to be put down. No deadline means that stuff

does not get done and procrastination rules.

She should go down to a coffee place because once you sit in there you can barf out words. The

right words here.

11 999, and there it is 12 thou.

175.

The morn that is eastern easter Sunday. Youd think that everybody is in their best cloths, tell

that to the grungy skateboardy person that stands in front of her in the line at Starbucks.

Everybody is laid back in the coffee house, the easterfestvities are happening elsewhere. No

bunnies here, no chocolates, no Easter egg hunt. No women in old peoples clothes flocking into

the Hellenic center. What is wrong with you people? Just a relaxed day in the sun, the formalities

are happening elsewhere. But this is the feast of bunny hopping, of long ears moving, of

chocolate eggs, and of Lindt bunnies. Of pastel colors as pastel as the cherry blossoms in pink

and white. The perfect Easter Sunday, and there will be a Monday too. Now she is back in the

room where the telly talks to itself, where somebody is on the phone and talking silently, mostly

listening and humming ehem, it is a day and a morn where she can type so much of her

amazingish story, the book of printemps, all of these words that motion over the keyboard and

47
into the monitor here. 12 198words here. The book that grows organically until we stop at 100

000 words and send this out to agents in nyc who read the first three sentences and then press the

button of the auto-reject to then go out to the dunkin donuts on the other side of the street.

NYC, where people happen and hot dog stands are happening, happening. Old New York, Old

New York here.

176.

So interesting, she wrote under the number 83 and then she noticed that she wrote within the text

instead of at the end of it. In other words she did not notice that it was somewhere, well, in the

middle. She repeats the same thing, anyhoo, she then has to copy and paste, and cut the part that

she injected into the text. This is writing nowadays, the software somehow writes this and

sometimes it totally swallows parts of the text. New texts that are at the mercy of all of these

computers here. Welcome to the 21st century, well, whatev.

177.

The bookwriter and her book, that is still the working title of this text here. Once more, whatev.

178.

Welcome back, she could still type and then work on her pics.

179.

13 402. Nope, still, 12 406.

180.

48
Her selfie in the coffee shop. So many selfies the world over. In coffeeshops, though usually that

is not where selfies are taken. They are taken in front of landmarks, the Eiffel tower, the

Pyramids, the Statue of Liberty. A coffee shop is just soso, the pic captures the lighting, the

bohemian nature that is promoted by the corporate headquarters in Seattle, the smell of vanilla

infused cream, the drinks that do not make you fat, that further the false sense of community, the

sense of belonging, snap in the middle of a group of strangers, of people from all walks of life,

all demographics, that hover over a cuppa joe, that do not have to talk to their neighbor, but that

are still part of a group just like the strangers you meet on the street, on the bus in an airplane.

181.

Tomorrow the Easter egg roll in the White House. An animation on CNN.

182.

Outside the sun and its shining down on the planet, on the world. In here, the pushing down of all

of these buttons and the formation of a text that is moving steadily forward to the one hundred

thousand word mark. The life of a writer, the constant hammering away at a construct that will

withstand the weathering and the withering of time, something to make yer immortal, to put your

individual stamp on this world here, something to say that I have been here, I made a mark, and

that will be here long after the author has gone and dissipated to dust. Writing, ah writing here.

183.

12675, one two six seven five.

184.

49
Welcome back after seven hours. A sojourn through the village next to her place. So many places

that she usually drives by and does not notice. All those people that gather in the coffee house,

and each and every day she sits next to a young woman with long hair on a barstool, the barstool

in the coffee place. Apparently that is what young women with long hair do, they sit on barstools

until their date arrives. There are patterns here, she can look at this from an anthropological

viewpoint.

185.

The problem is when you are walking thru the neighborhood and you see this beautiful, perfect

view of the mountains in the distance, the one with wisps of snow on them, and you want to take

a pic but your storage is full and you cannot take this photo, this spectacular photo. You have to

go all old skool and store the picture in your memory bank, nothing digital, nothing that can be

retrieved later on from google drive here.

186.

Six degrees of separation on the telly, it is on Broadway here.

187.

The night is silently coming to this place, on the sixteenth of April here, it is seven and twenty-

six, when will Columbo start up, at eight, yeah, this is what she waits for all week, the

culmination of everything, the detective in the rumpled raincoat here.

188.

22915, not much, till this stands at 30000. Nope, we misread this here, it is 1291, 12932, we are

making it down to 13000. This is what she writes about, the wordcount and it is not one of those

50
themes that is severe enough, stoic enough, manly enough, serious enough here. Lil ditties, lil

ditties. That go with the dainty down under coffee, the flat white sans caffeine. She said coffeine

and the barista asked whut. Ookay, caffeine.

189.

12995, five words and we are there, ah, there here.

190.

The tv is always on, more so for company than anything else. Listening in to the spoken word

transforms somehow into the written word. The tv as literature generating device. If you can call

it literature and elevate it from being a mere journal, a mere diary. She went down to the coffee

house which was just opening. There were runners on the street, lots of them, the early morning

runner crowd. It is still a holiday, a statutory one, maybe, so maybe. Easter Monday, and the

runners are out. There are lowly ones too, lonely ones. There are runners in two and then there

are the ones who are jogging in rudles. They are all healthier than her, she just types and walks a

tad. Never ever runs. Running is a science, an art. How do you do that without crashing down

onto the pavement if you trip. Anyhoo, writing it is, typing it is. She foregoes the gym, the sitting

on a stationary bike while trying to avoid the glances of strangers, the weighing in of herself.

Foregoes it to type up her masterpiece or parts of it. Accumulating words, like beads on a string.

She has 13202, some two hundred words on a day in April, the early morn of a balmy Easter

Monday. Which is a statutory holiday or is not here. Her words do not clink in, they never do,

they never ever do here. Filling up the page, filling up the page here. Overusing the word HERE.

191.

51
Tinkering around with the pics on the phone. Somehow it is all confusing. There are two

categories of storage, one is called photo stream, the other one is called camera roll. Potato,

potahto. Tomato, tomahto. That kind of stuff. And does the storage include emails and

messages? However this works. One thing is certain, the storage is full lots of times and then one

cannot take any photos. Which was really annoying at this brunch place where author here really

wanted to shoot photos but the overflowing storage did not let her take any pics. Technology is

basically confusing, that is why people on the bus all stare down at the screens of their little

handheld devices. They try to figure out what the hell is going on. And nobody really knows.

One thing that is funny, is, that now that she changed the image on the screen of her computer to

a photo that is more yellow than blue, all the little windows are yellow, and not blue anymore.

She cannot really describe that, how do you describe something visual with words. There is art

writing and they teach that in this place in New York, because it seems to be an art to describe

something visual here.

192.

Rain is coming down. After a sojourn into the world it is back to this place at the typer. She did

not find a parking space in front of the coffee house, had to park far away in the street and walk

down to the coffee place. In what was pretty light apparel. Chilliness, huh. Inside the coffee

place, three construction workers in colorful attire. Real working men versus the coffee house

crowd who chat and hover over their coffees. That particular coffee place is all brimming with

excitement at ten. All coffee places are, ten is when the working men and women take their

breaks. Autor here is freelance which is shorthand for uncompensated. Awaiting the big break

that will never come. The elusive big break that lives somewhere on the north pole. You cannot

attain it, ever, ever. That place where CNN calls, Charlie Rose pesters you for an interview.

52
BBC, Aljazeera, Stockholm. Do you have time for the Nobel ceremony, nope, well, ok, then.

Photoshoot after photoshoot. The big time. Well, who cares, at least she has ample amounts of

time to hone her craft, she can write, all day long, each and every day here. If you are unfamous

you can afford to be prolific. You can pen ten books per year. One better than the next. Practice

makes perfect. And there is always enough time to watch Friends and Matlock. Rerun country,

yep, that one, ah, that one.

Outside it is drizzly grey, yup, drizzly grey here.

193.

13719.

194.

The boozehound aspect of writing. There is this really good book, a blue one, written by this

person who went through the program of art writing at the School of Visual Arts, the one on 21st,

he wrote about pubs or maybe he wrote about coffee places, about watering holes the world over.

195.

Two and a Half Men on the telly. Time to take a walk down to the village and have a flat white

and a piece of coffee. watching people in order to be inspired to write. This is what Tolstoy did,

if you do the same you will be just as inspired and write War and Peace Numero Dos.

196.

The episode with the moms. Funny like always.

197.

53
Apropos boozehounding, there has to be a way to type this up without ruining ones innerts with Commented [na1]:

some toxic substance. Writing sans being inebriated. Well, the boozehounding happens between

writing spurts. It is mainly happening to fill the void between typing spurts. To make life more

interesting. Because, let us face it, here is nothing more boring than sitting in a room without a

window and being hunched over and push down little black squares with letters in the upper left

quarter. Capital letters. Yup, this calls definitely for a flat white here.

198.

Mall or village, that is the question here.

199.

Too many people are crowding her, there is the right amount of strangers that will make you put

down the right prepositions, the right amount of adverbs per page. Writing is so very scientific,

you have to calculate the words and then you will have the right result here. She has 13397

words and this took her two months of her life here. And now we are at 14 000.

200.

14 017 here.

201.

The cottage industry that is writing here. Lots of people write in coffee shops. She used to do

that, ten years or so ago. Mostly longhand. Later on she drove all the way to the library in the

other town, the one down near Fifth Road to transcribe all of these. Words. She then went down

to Kinkos on West Broadway to print the pages out, two pages at a time. She made the bunch of

papers slowly get bigger until she had a mountain of 300 pages, 300 leaves of paper. And then

54
she brought fifty of those papers to a place in downtown, only to have the manuscript rejected.

That was her first sojourn into writing here.

202.

14139.

203.

The coffee house or sitting put and typing here. Three in the afternoon. The one on West

Boulevard will close at five. It has by far the best coffee in the neighborhood, great atmosphere,

great everything, great reviews. She can sit there or sit here at the typer while 2 Broke Girls and

reruns is happening. Choices, huh, the dilemma of writers, a writer, this writer here. She is going

insane, ever so slowly here. Comes with the territory. There is a liquor store near here, it is open

till eleven. Still time for excessive boozing here. One of these days she will come upon a plot

more mesmerizing than the day-ins and day-outs of a writer, a hapless, as of yet unpublished

one.

204.

The news on the telly. The news out of Boston. A restaurant closing in Boston. Something about

a fast food restaurant. It is eight over there and it feels weird to listen to news out of another

place here. The weather in Boston.

205.

Writers block, somehow, she never ever feels it, she just starts to chat about trivial stuff. The

coffee house is now closed, the one where coffee and banana bread is seven bucks, two bucks

more than at Starbucks here.

55
206.

She should go out for a walk, it is still bright outside, well, more grey than bright but one could

go for a walk. You cannot stay put at the computer, your words might suffer here.

207.

14383, on the telly, the Boston marathon which was the day before. On Easter Monday. She

definitely has to go out and have some kind of hot beverage, how much longer can you sit

chained to a computer and type. The words will suffer. For her writing seems to be more about

ritual, the right kind of position that will make for the right kind of words. It is very physical, the

ability to choose the right words. Out of so many words in the language. And in her case she is

not even a natural speaker, she learned English when she was ten. And she uses it since she was

thirty. The immersion in the language. She should read more, reading is good. Books. She read

this article about how more books are published not less. The computer did not kill the book, just

like TV did not kill it radio did not kill it. People still read and write. Even though they have

phones that can take pictures of the world around them here.

208.

And we are back. April twenty, a Thursday maybe. on the telly, Mike and Molly, the second one.

There are two every day, at one. And before that, it is Friends, it was the one where there is

another singer than Phoebe in Central Perk, author here has seen them all, many many many

times. Binge-watching, that is her thing here. And before we were in the mall, at lunchtime. So

many many people. She was on her phone, sending the pics she took the day before to herself

and deleting them. Photography, huh. She is really into it these days, you just need a phone.

Ansel Adams and his phone here.

56
209.

She drove thru and had a BigMac. It is just like her art making, drive-thru art making. Everything

has to go fast here.

210.

14 799, so near to 15 000.

211.

Later on, it will be flat white and something sweet here. She had chocolates by Godiva, little

white chocolate bunnies with too much chocolate and not enough filling. The chocolate was way

too thick for the filling. That is why you have to get choc from Cadbury or Nestle, they have the

machines that can get it just right. Their quality control is so much better.

212.

Writers live in their peejays. Writers are boozehounds. They have a cottage industry. Their job is

very sedentary. Yup, and they sure are good at watching Friends reruns here.

213.

She will have to go into this at a later time and edit out all the glitches. She used to do it after

typing and before she saved it, but nowadays she has changed her modus operandi and not for

the better. Nowadays she spells out modus operandi instead of just calling it M.O. Her writing

lacks the obligatory hipness that will make it publishable, boundable and sellable. Translatable,

movie rights agettable. Being part of the classroom curriculum of the college on 49thable. And

of course, Princeton, whatev.

214.

57
These days she is a lot on Instagram, the twitter for people who cannot read. She stole that

observation from 2 Broke Girls, she should somehow thread the yelp quip from Big Bang in here

too. The one where Penny asks a playwright if he is published, and he counters, that depends,

how much time do you spend on yelp.

215.

Six more words three two one, oh, sorry, she needs more, the wordcount icon is ah so small, the

teeny tiny number at the bottom of the page here.

216.

Outside there is some humming going on, which is really annoying. Some machine, and she is

not even quite sure what it is. A vacuuming of the street, or something else. It is not the mowing

of a lawn, that is for sure. Ok, it is the washer at its last cycle, the spin cycle. Whatev.

217.

15 041.

218.

A masterpiece of 15042 words here.

219.

An ad for LOral. The sun outside is shining here.

220.

58
The washer has stopped. Time to fill the load into the dryer. Go ahead, you know you want to do

it. The main problem with writing is that you have to do chores while fashioning your

amazingish creations. That is why it is called cottage industry and not palace industry here.

221.

Coffee shop industry would be a more accurate title here.

222.

Ah, shed rather watch 2 Broke Girls than fill up the dryer. So the wet clothes condensate a tad.

No biggie here.

223.

She is at the computer since eight in the morn. It is now four in the afternoon. Going insane here,

ever so slightly, ever so slightly here.

224.

15176.

225.

The midst of the night, she wakes up and down to the telly it is. The internet connection is down

which is so very weird here, we are so in tune, so used to constant googling and wikipedaing

everything on this planet. Filling ones head with useless trivia, that seems to be right up authors

alley here. On the telly, the news outta nyc, Fox though, because Pix does not seem to click on

Saturdays here. It is foggy over there and it is the day after the OReilly show was cancelled. Or

maybe some days after that. The weather guy is talking about Boston, it is now once more about

Aaron Hernandez.

59
226.

Back at the computer here. After 4 hours apparently. So the software tells her. It is keeping tabs.

You wrote at five in the morn and it is now nine. On a Saturday. So much has happened. She

went out, had coffee, caught the bus, then the train, walked thru downtown, first thru the tony hip

part of town and then through the real core. She went to the Y, the gym that is all hip and

happening. She walked by another one too which is even more hip, all dark pink and so much

like David Barton in Astor Place, well, how it used to be because nobody knows who owns that

place nowadays here. She could google it, so that the things that she says make sense but that

will only slow down the flow of the words here.

227.

Long story short she is back at the computer. There was a woman on the bus who was writing in

her journal. Yup, this is how it is, people write in different places, longhand and nonlonghand

here. She could take part in this Design Writing Intensive in nyc, let us see how it works out,

yup, let us see here.

228.

On the telly, Ann Coulter and Berkeley. Three persons are talking about this and this is on Fox

News.

229.

Tottenham and Chelsea, soccer.

230.

60
She did not catch enough zs and it shows. The feel of grogginess, all-encompassing. She read

this opinion piece by a so very young Dutch writer, it was nice and then it was off to other

articles about Dutch writers.

231.

Her writing is sloppy, journal-like, Dear Diary-ish. She read the first two pages of this her

masterpiece to another person and this made her rethink her career as a writer. How can you

possibly start second-guessing everything you say? Is it usual or usually, when is it an adverb

and when is it an adjective? Writing is all about grammar, about being exact. Like polishing

silver. Yup, polish your words. Though, if they suck in the beginning, all the polish in the world

will not help. A waste of Tarnex.

232.

15652.

233.

Pick up where you left off: 5 hours ago.

234.

A rainy Saturday. It was so nice in the morn and now this. The never-ending rain of this city

here. On the telly: The Middle and the voice of the narrator. Kind of like her writing here, she

just describes her daily, well, day-ins and day-outs here. Author should once more read thru what

this woman said about writing, after all, she is published in Holland and her work has been

translated into English and German. She studies literary theory at the University of Nijmegen.

235.

61
Book writing, huh. She reads thru different interviews with writers. She once did a reading,

actually, three. It went very well, well, at least two of them. A woman from Portland liked it. She

was all, you were really good, apparently, good enough for driving up the coast. Well, the

woman did not come for her writing, she came for some writing fest hoopla. Apparently those

hooplas are the best, you have to get out there and do readings. And you have to keep on typing

up everything that comes to your mind. This has to be professional, it has to occupy your mind,

day-in, ah, day-out here.

236.

Somebody had a problem with her dividing her text into all of these lil snippets, because you

usually name a chapter and not a small amount of words. You do not number a passage of three

sentences, or three lines. It is a very unconventional way of dividing a text up, which can work to

her advantage or it can be a big disadvantage. You have to bow to traditional forms, but you can

play with those forms. She just read an interview with Art Spiegelman where he stated that there

are no rules anymore, or something like that. It was on this online literary journal out of the UK.

Five days. That is the name of this journal. Kind of like a Paris Review, but online.

237.

Sorry, it is actually called five dials.

238.

Some things are mysteries even to me. Something is a mystery even to me. This is part of a story

she will write and it is about a writer who is not good at writing but good at fashion photography.

And she only uses her cell phone for that and Instagram. So she is an overnight sensation as a

62
photographer but not as an author. She cannot even fashion the sentence that is part of the story.

Btw, her name is Anka.

239.

Commissioned story.

240.

Opens with, Samsung o5 or iPhone 7. Android L-train maybe, First Street. Then the pizza place.

3 pizzas per day. Model though not Model Hutton.

241.

She was out, well, most of the day here. Has a Starbucks coffee cup with her. This is what she

huntered and gathered from the wilderness that is outside of her four walls. A flat white that does

not contain caffeine or two percent milk. Non-fat milk is what is in there. If the barista liked her,

otherwise he might have spat in her drink. The person who made his drink does despise her, the

one who took her order adored her. Nobody knows how this works why we hate some strangers

and love others. They usually remind us of people that we have met before. It is all very random.

She was in the library read parts of this book that was called the Paris Reporter or the Paris

Journalist or something like that. She read three or four stories by Truman Capote. She was at

this art show. In the community center. She could be a member there but shed rather go back to

school and sit in a darkened room and look at PowerPoint presentations. There will be some

hoopla like that in the art school on Monday, thesis symposium. Whatev.

242.

63
The book writer makes up plots while she is taking the train out to Lansdowne. A plot about a

celebrated fashion photographer who actually wanted to be a celebrated writer. The fashion

photographing is kind of niche and avant-garde, it is all made by a click on a cell phone. The

photographer is at the top of her game by basically reinventing the medium of photography for

the digital age.

The She is actually a HE named Wolfgang, middle-aged.

243.

And the locations are Tulum and Santa Monica, New York, Amsterdam.

244.

And it is all fiction. She has to do research, something like that. But in essence it is all about

coffee houses. That is where it is all happening, the protagonist pondering in different parts of

the world sipping something anything and people watching.

245.

The book about the journalist and the book about Capote. Pretty interesting, mainly from a

technical point. The Paris book started by referencing Casablanca.

246.

On the telly, a woman in blue talking about Fox news.

247.

64
Pondering if she really wants to go the plot-road, maybe she will stick to this DEAR DIARY

format, somehow her writing seems to flow better this way. Fiction is more something that she

consumes and not what she produces.

248.

16517.

249.

Pick up where you left off yesterday. So one day has passed her by. Once there was a mentioning

of a writer, actually it was part of an interview on the radio. The writer referred to his life as

being in solitude, always in front of the same computer, hardly ever changing his clothes.

Reclusiveness and not in a good way. Author here will not have that happen to her, she is out and

about since seven in the morn. The thesis thingie in the art school, the trek down to UBC, where

there are at least two new buildings, the swimming pool and the AMS. The bookstore seemed to

be overhauled too. All the buses are starting up in new places. The AMS seemed to be the old

one, except of being totally overhauled. She had a pizza there, a poutine pizza. Which was

definitely not as good as the old ones that they had, the Ukrainian potato ones. She had a donut,

too, once she was back in Kerrisdale. And a tea. Way too much eating, at least 1000 calories too

much. She has to walk that off, in order to maintain her body weight. As this standup comedian

said, it takes a lot of effort to maintain this shitty body. She is definitely overweight but she puts

her life on hold so that she does not get overweighter than this. Just as much as a skinny

marathoner does. Yup, that is how it is how it is here. The thesis thingie at the art school was

impressive. Just saying. And 16782 it is, it is here.

250.

65
So, now it is back at the computer while outside it seems to start to rain. She will walk to the

village but somehow it does not really make sense to strut thru the rain that is pouring down.

Maybe later in the day she will just merely drive down to the coffee house. Maybe she had

enough going on already here. She was in the coffee house in the morn which was pretty

exciting. For starters, they had this more or less handwritten paper affixed to the glass wall which

stated that they will not allow customers to use visa or master card or any card for that matter.

The machines are down. So just use cash. Thus, the author here waltzed down to the gas station

while a so very young Indian lady, more teenager, is coming towards her. She is wearing a grey

light-blue shirt that says ask me anything and is all shy smiles. A typical schoolgirl smile. In the

gas station it is ATM and luckily it is RBC, so author does not have to pay extra, she can use her

RBC debit card. Twenty bucks and back to the coffeehouse, though the ppl after her are using

credit card which is weird.

Then it is backing out of the parking lot which is weird too, the big black pickup does not really

back in and stays diagonally outside of the parking space, merely half in. Weird, it is not that big

of a truck.

After this it is the gym and the weight on the scale which is nice. Then the bathroom, but that is

too much info. After that, and a glance at the Y-lady who has her hair in braids today, it is on to

the mall. She will kill time because she can only park for 3 hours on the island and so she has to

wait until nine thirty. She walks a tad in the mall, she has a tea and chocolate, one Reeses Pieces

cup out of three, there is a man who makes weird gestures with his legs, he wants to do exercise

while waiting. Ok, whatev.

66
She buys a spaghetti dinner and puts it in the car. Where there is a tuna wrap too. Later she gets a

donut and puts it in the car. Okeedok, all the calories for the day in one place, inside a metal

container, the car.

Some more sitting in the mall and waiting, looking at all the women who are having breakfast,

something warm sandwich-like, a beverage in a cup. One is playing with her phone, one is taking

away the meat from her sandwich and just having the bread and the egg. One person is reading a

newspaper. One woman has very white nicely manicured nails and gives author here a big smile.

It is now nine thirty, she goes to the apple store and then she drives down to the island. She

listens in to a talk by a woman from Brown.

Author left out lots of little bits and pieces, this is not so very chronologically correct and it does

not mention each and every little detail of what happened. This is a mere broad walk-thru here.

She wrote two pieces, finished off another one, played around with her CV, only to notice that

the opening for an intern in midtown Manhattan was last years news. Ah, whatev, yup, surely

whatev it is here. 17 365 it is, it is here.

251.

A fast walk near her house, a looking in to the Tim Hortons, a too big woman, the reminder what

happens if you have one too many donuts, you too will need a walker and you will not even have

the gumpf to wear a bra just like that lady, so, forgoing the second donut it is here, she had

chocolate, she had a piece of cake, had a donut, enough of sugar for this day, there will be other

days, other occasions, other opportunities of having your sugar fix here. At this point it is all

about having your writingish fix, your watching Friends or Modern Woman Modern Family

sorry fix, your trying to reinvent the wheel literaturewise fix.

67
How about a lot of 200 word long essays. Artforum has this category 500 words, and it is all

about short video clips where artists talk about their art in minutes or so, in 500 words.

The same can be done in writing, describe a building in 200 words, just like a pic on Instagram.

She saw this building in white and black, she would have taken a photo if she had her phone with

her. She now can describe that building mainly it is interesting because it used to look

differently, they kind of just revamped the facade and made it brand-new, just like they took the

run inn and took it from one side of the street to the other side, it is still the same shoe store,

though the old place was more prime location, this new one is kind of tucked away location. The

room inside of the store is still the same but somehow the place looks a tad older, desperate-ish.

She ponders, if she will ever publish this, she has to take these parts out, because she might get

sued here. If you cant say something nice, then, dont say something at all here.

252.

Except if youre Howard Stern here, and shock value is what sells ur books.

253.

The coffee house at twenty to nine, so many people, so many faces. So much movement. Author

here is inhaling what she sees, just to get back to the typing machine and documenting it.

Everything. Which is impossible. How come there is such a line-up of cars on the way, why is

that, it is a Wednesday, hump day, middle of the week. Half past eight, that is when she is on the

street and not quite there in the coffee house. The woman behind the counter gives her a smile,

she knows her order. She has blue framed glasses, a grey steely hue. She is very comforting and

looks very professional, a future doctor or lawyer or head of state. She has that kind of

demeanor, very comfortable in her own skin. Reassuring. She can be an eye doctor who does

68
injections into peoples eyes and does not flinch a bit. She makes you be stoic and ready to go to

war. She is a general in the making here. Author takes her food and looks for a seat, her favorite

seats are occupied by three men in black, two on one side, one on the other. They are all wearing

felt, but that does not soften the blow, you are in my seat. Author here takes this new seat, where

she is kind of wedged diagonally, which is kind of interesting, you have a view of the Hellenic

center and the buses that come up Arbutus. Even after other seats are vacated, she still stays put,

wedged in here one can people watch so much better. It is as if the images of people are clearer

due to the mobile restrictions of the viewer. If there is not much leeway for movement, you are

more attuned to watch what is going on, your senses are heightened. After all you have to stay

put, so you might as well look out for what is going on in the distance. You escape mentally

here.

Anyhoo, she is not quite sure about these glasses she is wearing here, they pinch her nose.

Reminds her of a scene in Seinfeld, just like all the moments of daily life do. A show about

nothing, if you watch it too much you are apt to write, to pen a book about nothing here. One

eight oh nine five, 18095, that it is for now, for now here.

254.

On the telly, Big Bang. Laugh tracks. Outside the sun is shining reluctantly. She could go down

to the coffee house and then come back and write about how the coffee house is at this time of

the day. The ever differing clientele. One could write a whole book on that and that is actually

what we are doing here. Coffeehouses, huh.

255.

18173.

69
256.

How can you possibly write when you are cooped up at home. There is nothing happening to

feed your writing. The walls do not speak to yer. The telly talks constantly but jumps too much

around, that kind of hecticness goes just over your head and you cannot hold onto any thought or

idea that you can formulate. Coherence goes by the wayside here. She had a soft-boiled egg,

maybe it was even too soft. Runny. Some bread some cheese. In the morn she was in the gym in

downtown. Took the bus. Had a coffee and a banana loaf bread slice, later on a Thai wrap. Thai

tuna. And a diet food that was actually pretty rich. Linguine chicken carbonara. A thick and rich

cream sauce, you will not lose weight like that. Well, she walked quite a lot, from seven to nine,

two hours. Too much walking is not good on the knees.

257.

On the telly it is all about Boston, Cambridge police this, Cambridge police that.

258.

The weather is nice here, sunnyish. April twenty-seven here.

259.

Time to write some. And then some. 7:39 on April 28, 2017, it has more the feel of an April

twenty-nine. Outside, still sundrenchedness on the greenery, on the telly, CNN. She went out to

the coffee house, it was ten or eleven after seven when she left that place. Three madeleines is

what she had, there were two persons from the school around the corner. One of them had his

name written on his shirt. Apparently it is day ninety-nine in Trumps presidency. Trump who

70
was called a Cheeto-dusted scrotum by Patton something, the actor from King of Queens. Patton

Oswalt. Funny, huh.

260.

She was in the art school and listened in to the presentation of the sound artist from Brown. She

was in the college on forty-ninth, where they were cleaning up the grad show. She got a parking

tic.

261.

Her writing, the one that lacks plot. Writing that is just so, just there. Your writing has to be on

something, it cannot just meander thru time. Can too. Does too. So it will not be published in

conventional ways. That is just fine by her. Who wants to be published in bookform. I will tell

you, who, yours truly here. Anyhoo, three talking heads on the telly, nothing but bullshit here.

262.

Trivago has a new spokesperson, British accent, UK accent. Or something of that kind here.

Helen Mirren and hotels, huh.

263.

Driving thru the greenery of the burbs. Admiring the leaves on the trees. The majestic, well,

trees. The stint in the coffee house on a Saturday at half past nine. The red Ferrari. The family

who is too late for field hockey. The tutor and his student. The woman behind the counter who

heightens her eyebrow without really moving a muscle. She disapproves of authors order. The

coffee house and its music. The tune is still in authors head while she is writing this. Nobody

thought it was easy or nobody says it was easy in a whiny female voice. So it was not easy,

71
writing maybe. Being a writer. Writing on a coffee house. Author here does not want to leave

this place, how can you go home and write while the coffee house is going on living without her.

Different people will come in, new faces. A man is lighting up his cigarette, glances at the

woman in tights, twice. There is so much to see here. Different poses by different people.

Stereotypes. The weather is merely so, not shiny not really dreary, it has a drab that signals work

day but it is the weekend nonetheless. For a writer there are no weekends, there are no weekdays,

there is only the typing machine that wants you to churn out one hundred books in a lifetime. 100

books and then we are done. That is what we will do here on this planet. Write in English, words

that sometimes cling together, that sometimes make sense. Other times they are harsh and

illogical, no harmony whatsoever. Clashing words in absurd sentences. She will write till the

cows come home even though she does not live in a place where there are cows. She could go to

the mall, to downtown, watch the faces on the train. Strangers interacting or avoiding each

others glances. The airport, the train goes out to the airport. Wheverything but this stupidity of

typing up all of these words here. She has 18925, this is what she did in two months. There are

deadlines she has to meet, parking tics that she has to pay. Art residencies she should be part in,

writing workshops in Chelsea, next to that tiny coffee house that is situated near a halfway

house. A precinct with police cars parked in the alley. She types, she types, she would love to

type in the laundromat, typing up a masterpiece while ones laundry is done, so that you have

fresh clothes for the interview on Charlie Rose here.

264.

It is ten oh one here on the west coast. It is one minute after one in New York City. Just sayin,

just sayin here.

265.

72
She should do a reading, could do a reading. Arrange that, something in a literary place in town

here. There are many, cafes, the like. She usually just stumbles upon them, does not really have

her ear to the ground to see what is happenin.

19090.

266.

It is all about numbers, how many words, how many dollars per word. Poetry corrupted, you

cannot force poetry. It lingers and that is how the words come out, are coughed out. Leonard

Cohen said something about a crack where the lite comes in, nobody knows what it means, but it

is melodious. There is an economy in words, there are too many words or too little, a balance, the

right intonation of the right voice here. When she did her poem in her first art class, she made

somebody else read it. Good looking readers make for a captive audience. The words themselves

are not enough. The narrative of the writer, the beauty or nonbeauty of her who writes, him who

writes. 19242, that is what the small number says, the wordcount, ah, the wordcount. People used

to write long hand, that is where it is at, is at. There is more romanticism in that. A typewriter,

nah, a mere machine. That is not how literature works here. Poesie, where art thou?

267.

She has her two obligatory pages, now she can go out and roam the world, be part of the living,

this is not a dissertation which has to be churned out in time. These are poetic songs, short

observation of what is the real world here. She could go down to the market, have a peanut

cluster with peppermint tea. The fridge hiccups in the adjacent room, she feels loneliness,

creeping up, there is nothing more vexing than the solitude of some writer here.

268.

73
She should drink, at ten after ten, it sure is five oclock somewhere. You just need hard liquor,

bourbon is what drives forth the words. How can you write precisely without being inebriated? It

does not work, does not work. A mean drunk, that is the one who knows the right words here. A

male mean drunk. The girls may not apply.

269.

Pick up where u left off 29 minutes ago. It seems like so much more since she typed here, her

perception of time is so subjective, it never ever seems to be the same. She had the Thai wrap

which is a tad too much, too heavy here. She is watching, soccer, Bundesliga, Wolfsburg against

Bayern Munich and now it is all about cars, a man in Geneva talking about Volkswagen and

Audi. Apparently they have cars over there that are not exported. Cars, cars.

270.

It is chilly here, she types up her masterpiece. A mere 20 000 words, she still has to drive this up

to 100 000. She will go in later and edit all of this, iron out the glitches. Which is annoying, it is

better if you do it while you go.

271.

Nothing to say, nothing to write about here. On the telly, the guy who talks nonstop about cars

and throws around technical mumbo jumbo that nobody will ever understand. Well, for him it is

a good gig, driving around and chatting.

272.

Ten fifty-two, 19592. She will go out and buy the big sugar cookie from the bakery on

MacDonald. Gives her something to do and something to write about here.

74
273.

Driving television, maybe she should just stay put in here and watch this. Instead of going out

and driving down to the bakery place. Sugar cookie, not that good, if you want to change your

blob body into a mean yoga machine.

274.

Driving television, huh. This episode is brought to you by pennziol. Sorry, Pennzoil. Whatever

that is. Oil or something.

275.

She could go down to the mall and get some bag of cookies. It is as much as the one cookie in

the bakery.

276.

She writes about cookies and cars, about soccer and football. Bakery, coffee houses here. She

should get a coffee from the gas station or drive thru mcadees. So much one can do here. Instead

of just typing up words. Anything and everything to get away from the typing machine here.

277.

She could write about Trump and a protest that is going on in DC.

278.

Politics does not interest her, coffeehouses interest her.

279.

19783.

75
280.

Her back starts to hurt, there are better positions for writing. Her keyboard is way too low for

writing here.

281.

What is the optimal seating position for a person behind a computer here?

282.

There was a problem with the car. And with the rain. And with the weather. It is cold here. She is

back in the room with the green couch and still it is the show about the pebble beach car show.

She has never heard about this, it seems to be a show about old-timer cars somewhere in

Monterey. It is too rainy and too cold to do anything. You just have to stay in and type up your

masterpiece so that you at least have a master piece this year. On your deathbed they will ask

you about how many words you wrote in your years. That is how the merit of your life is

measured. How many how many. How many summits how many words. How many miles did

you run, travers. You have to have typed up a record high of words. There are no Pulitzers or

anything, no Nobel. She has to fashion her own prize, her own award. And then bestow it on

herself. Her writing is as good as any. Outside there is the Kerrisdale carnival, but, hey, it is way

too rainy for that. The rained-in carnival days. All with horse drawn cubby.

283.

She will still go down to the market but not now here. She can survive sans cookies and chips

here.

284.

76
Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets. That is the song on the telly, a song that is part of a car ad, an ad

for red cars here.

285.

The last Sunday in April of 2017, she was in the coffee house and in the mall. She came back,

drove by all of the walkers and the bikers who enjoy the sunny day along the walkway that used

to be a train track here. First thing in the morn, when she came out of her house there was a man

in blue huffing and puffing, about her own age, jogging with receding hairline, trying to revive

the vigor of his youth. Trying to die later than her. Trying to die while still healthy. Going out in

style here.

286.

They like to show this clip where Trump says that being a president is hard work. Duh.

287.

Why would he think that being a president is tougher than being on Celebrity Apprentice?

Laughter here.

288.

State of the Union, that is what it says behind the panelists. On the wall behind them. Rick

Santorum is on, a woman in blond and red. Van Jones, and the woman with the slight Spanish

accent. All of them talking against Trump here. Yup, CNN it is here. Ah, how to write a

masterpiece by the music of CNN.

289.

Sanders, Warren troubled by Obamas Wall St. speech. That is what it says on the telly here.

77
290.

Outside, the greenery. The day before she read about this other Dutch author, who is so very

young still and had her debut novel at age twenty. For writers it has to be a novel while they are

barely outta diapers or you will not make it here. Not in the world of literature, so it seems so it

seems here.

291.

The reluctant sunniness outside. The summer that is around the corner. Though it is still chilly-

cold in this city here. NYC has about 30 degrees. Here in Vancitay we are standing at ten

Celsius. There are places in Germany, Rosenheim, where they have snow still. Maybe, who

knows, she has all of her info by scouring the web here. Who knows what really happens in

places far away from here. We live in the world by staring at a screen. And somebody might just

say something, anything on the web here.

292.

9:55 in the AM. On a Sunday, Sunday, April 29. In 2017. We have 20466. Twenty, four six six.

Her book that lacks a plot. That meanders thru her own life. She was in the coffee house in the

morn. The coffee was so nice, not too cold and not too hot. There were two women who were

old. She wonders if she looks like them or even older. She could go down to NYC and be part of

the residency on Governors Island. She could take a class at the School of Visual Arts. Or at the

auction house in midtown. She has to plan it now, pay up the tuition. By beginning of May. She

will not be able to do that, she has to stay in town here. Her art career will suffer. Nothing that

propels her career as an artist forward here. And all that she is doing is whining towards her

78
keyboard. A book of whining about missed opportunities. And she has a parking tic that she has

to pay within seven days here.

293.

Fareed Zakaria and his take on Trumps first 100 days here.

294.

Wow, it is actually April thirty here.

295.

On the telly, still talking about politics. Discussing stuff. Outside the sun is shining, inviting yer

to walk to move to enjoy the weather more so than sitting here and typing. The book, ah, there

will be many books written here. Who cares about some shitty books? Nobody. Especially if

nobody will pay yer for your service here. Who wants to read what one of the seven million

inhabitants that roam this earth at any given time has to say. Especially when the main subject

matter is coffee houses. Too much of negativity on this last day of April. Tomorrow May will

start up, yup, mayday. Day of labor or something here. There are countries where this is a

holiday. Bolshevist countries maybe. She should go on Wikipedia and sort all of this out here.

296.

She could try to get into the residency here. The one that is about studio time in NYC on

Governors Island, too trying, she does not have the physical makeup to do this here. Let others

be part of that residency here. Or not. Tomorrow she will make up her mind here.

297.

79
Coming back 2 the text. While being away from the computer 4 five hours or so. Well, not

really. She just read about a new way to color female hair. Bayalage, apparently. She read about

pinterst. Pinterst. Pinterest. She walked around the neighborhood. She slept. She now knows that

bespoke means customized, made to other. Made to order, sorry. She took 30 pics while walking

thru the neighborhood. She ate two pizza pops. Had three Reeses Pieces, one wrap that had

beans in it, something Mexican or so here.

298.

Her writing is a glorified diary. A journal here. It is not a story. The noplotstory here.

299.

I am working on a nonplot story. Oh, is that so?

300.

She feels like chocolate eating here.

301.

Summer will start up tomorrow here.

302.

On the telly, a film about bald eagles here. David Suzuki is the narrator.

303.

The morning of writing. A Monday morn of words on paper. She was in the obligatory

coffeehouse trek, coffeehouse run. She is not quite sure if it is in the run, in the trek, the

preposition in might be grammatically incorrect here. Ah, she has to figure out grammatical

80
structures while others are flying to Australia. Writing is non-glamourous, so tedious, so dull, so

work-a-day. Spinning together words, she is like a tailor, seamstress, somebody who mends

holes in the world here. She has to search for the right words and they are never ever right, there

are always better ways to describe stuff. Poetic ones, pretty ones. The beauty of the words or the

non-beauty, more the potential beauty that is inherent in the language. Just rearrange the words

and something fundamental will emerge, some postulate, some amazing truth. Anyhoo, the

person in front of the coffee house had some shirt on that had the same colour as the Purdy truck

and turns out he was the driver. She has to elaborate so that this story makes sense, you cannot

just give bits and pieces of an observation and expect people to understand what the hell you are

talking about. She will be in this presentation at half past eleven, something about music and

some person who wants to teach at the art school will explain what she or he did for the last ten

years here. It is always kind of difficult to follow, some of the presenters are more clear than

others. And then there are the ones where you have no clue what the fuck they are talking about

here.

Outside the dreariness is overwhelming, such a shitty day.

304.

21257. At eight forty-two on a Monday in May, first of the month here.

305.

She should describe another locale, she should describe a fictional place. Somewhere far away

from here. There is nothing to describe in front of a typing machine here.

306.

81
At least in the times of typewriters there was a clickity clack, now it is so sanitized what with the

flat keyboard of the laptop. It is black to boot, black like your soul. Or something like that here.

307.

There are little blue dots that give you the blues. Yup, she is full of bullshit this morn here.

308.

The bookwriter and her book-the larger file, that is what this file is called now. Just sayin

309.

A journal, who will read this, who will write this. Well, obviously she is writing this here. Maybe

her questions should be more on the logical side. You cannot be a writer without logic here. Ah,

she did not want to be a writer, her training was in the visual arts, the problem is that this art

school adventure did go nowhere. She will watch the art school graduation online, that is the

only thing that is left from her art school adventure here.

310.

She could go down to the market, there is something to be said for supermarkets. She is not quite

sure what that something is here.

311.

How to fill her day here, typing up some words. Listening to songs on you tube. Watching tv.

Ah, life is so boring when you have to wait. How many words here? 21522. She did not apply for

the art residency in nyc, the one that is on governors island. She will not be able to make it, so

why pay the twenty-five bucks fee and then be rejected, so she will let it slide her by, the

82
deadline is midnite today, actually nine here, because it is midnight eastern time. Eastcoast time

here. Governors island has to do its thing without yours truly here.

312.

She is very busy, busy with procrastinating. Killing time so that she will not go down to the art

school to listen in to the representation, sorry, the presentation. It is like live theater after all, the

faculty presentation for candidates for teaching sound at the art school. She likes those, they are

all equally entertaining. Maybe she should go, even though it is pretty cold outside.

313.

So she went down to the art school. Nothing special. The presentation was superboring. The

presenter had one word that she liked a lot and repeated over and over. Author here does not

remember what it was.

314.

On the telly, two and a half men. The word was kind of weird, kind of out of context. Had

something to do with military or so. It always stands out if a word does not go with the subject

matter. Maybe it is a buzz word. The problem is that it is forgettable here.

315.

The grad show was about to be installed. It was equally boring, nothing special here. There is

nothing new in art. Oversized painting of the studio, basically a selfie.

316.

Everything new has been done before.

83
317.

Rain outside. She should go out and buy vanilla icecream here. She had a lot of food though

already. She has to maintain this her chubby body. It takes a lot to maintain this shitty body.

Who said that? C.k. Lewis or something.

318.

The night so near. She read a lot. Walked a lot.

343., sorry, 243. (edit: 319.)

320.

Some more words, still some more words here. Writing on writing, has been done before.

Nothing new to say. Men with long beards have given it much thought. Dead men. She read thru

this book about the authors photograph and its place in marketing. Was pretty interesting here.

Anyhoo, the day marches into the night, on the telly a sitcom and laughtracks, she had scrambled

eggs and now has to do dishes. Writing about doing dishes. There have to be more trying

subjectmatters. She could go out for a walk to the donutshoppe, now there is something to write

about. The walk by the houses that all look alike here. How do you describe boredom? She

walked down to the coffee house first thing in the morn, then gym, then downtown. The bus back

home. Her day is very structured, she eats the same thing at certain times. Which is not what to

write bout. There is supposed to be some kind of story here. A different city, a different

language. A different coffee house. A pub. On the telly, this Family Feud thingie. Yup, whatev.

321.

84
The coffee house down on Arbutus. Would be nice to go there to search for stuff to write about.

Her tire is slightly flat though, so she has to walk. Nah, better to sit put and type up a certain

amount of words. The feel of accomplishment that comes with finishing the obligatory two pages

here. Two months for 22099 words. Seems, words flow faster in November here.

322.

Pick up where u left off 19 minutes ago. She listened in to the telly, listened to the Trader Joe

song, read the comments of that u tube vid, so much one can do in nineteen minutes. Let the

screens keep yer entertained here. Which is not that good, you need to walk around or

something. The blood has to keep flowing here. She was out for 2 hours in the morn, walking,

transit, the like. Coffee in the coffee place on the other side of the street, the one that she hardly

ever uses. Have to mix it up, though it is all basically the same here. Sameness, whatev.

323.

She read a lot on writers archives and collections. Publically held ones. The price that libraries

pay. How will this happen in a paperless society?

324.

An ad for brownie and cheesecake. An ad for a college, one of those that are like trade schools

here.

325.

Still half a page and we have some two pages here. A new show of Family Feud. Apparently it is

made in Atlanta Georgia. Clapping and the ding of the bell. A fast paced show. High

entertainment. A woman who shrieks or says something in a shrieky voice here.

85
326.

So near to two pages. On the telly, Seinfeld. Ah, those reruns here. George and the name. Soda.

He suggests it to his friends as a name for their unborn baby. But you know that already. Who

has not seen Seinfeld like a thousand times here? Kramer, huh.

327.

So near to night. The days are really getting longer. It was so weird that the day was beginning

so soon, it was so bright at six in the morn. The day and its starting up sooner. Yup, the change

of the seasons, now there is something to write on. Even more fascinating than the descriptions

of coffee houses here.

328.

22426, two pages on May two of 2017 here.

329.

Seven oh seven on May third in 2017. The rain is coming down, drenching the city. The woman

in the coffee house looks like Lauren Bacall which is contrasting the woman behind her that

looks like a man. Then again, one could argue that Lauren Bacall had a pretty masculine aura. It

is more that one person looks elegant and the other one more like a construction worker. Author

here has not the right writing chops to highlight where exactly the difference between the

appearances of the two women lies. And she is not sure if that is really what she wants to write

about. Appearances, then clothes that people take out of their closet to put on in the morn for

their trek down to the coffee house. It is now back at the typer in the room with the telly, some

86
court show and a woman talking, defendant or plaintiff. This is what author here has to write

about because of the lack of plot for her book. The so very obvious lack.

May in Vancouver, so much rain, so much rain here. In two days there will be the opening at the

art school, the grad show. It is always a brouhaha, and there are no parking spaces. She might go

but if she does she has to take the bus. So it will be quite a fieldtrip, in the night to boot. Friday

nite in Vancouver and all those people all those people.

She is looking out for a plot, mainly because somebody said characterizing her writing that there

is no plot. This was a critique and not a statement, where the fuck is the plot, what is the story

here? Well, this is how it is, there is no plot, deal with it.

The show about nothing, the book on nothing. Something that meanders somewhere between

fiction and non-fiction here. Non-fiction is sellable, much more than fiction is. Fiction has to be

dramatic, non-fiction can put yer to sleep. Nobody cares here.

The rain is coming down or maybe it has stopped, one thing is clear, the sky is white grey dreary.

The sun behind the clouds, somewhere, somehow. There are just so many adjectives to describe

the grey in the sky, she has used them all up, used them all up here. Words to describe the blues,

it has been done, so many many times. The sounds of a harmonica, melodies of sorrow and

suffering here.

22846 words here, she types and she types here. In the coffee house, a construction worker, he

will construct a building, she will construct a book. Schaffe, schaffe, Haeusle baue, it is a

German expression and she does not feel like translating. The spiraling between languages, it has

its cons and its pros here.

330.

87
And now the persons in the court room here. A man with bushy eyebrows and a red and white

shirt. Little red and white cubes on the shirt.

331.

She pushed me, truck, the woman judge listens in.

332.

Legally evicted.

333.

When was the last time you paid your rent.

334.

So it is near to two pages here, the obligatory two pages. She could sit in here and type all day,

there is not enough air in her tire anyways, she has to stay put or walk thru the rain to take the

bus. Maybe, better to sit in here and construct the written piece here. The construction of some

text, one of many, one of many. Build your literary oeuvre whatever that is and whatever that is

here.

335.

23012. Words that is

336.

And 88 pages.

337.

88
So, what do you do these days? Oh, I am writing a book. Oh.

338.

If you are a published writer, one that is described on google, then this will fly. If you are not,

then people will look at you as if you are a nut.

339.

Yup, that is how it is here on this planet.

340.

Eight and fifty-five in the morn on the west coast here.

341.

How to have a perfectly toned body? She has to google it, so that she will fight her bloblike

existence. There are lunges and crunches and all kind of movements that will contract the

muscles and then release them. You have to have a better body and it is not just cosmetic. You

need a healthier you so that they do not put statins inside of your veins here.

342.

She is exhausted. She had one tub of icecream or what seemed like a tub. It was definitely too

much icecream for one sitting here. It was way too rich and it was out of nowhere. If you believe

a sitcom like Big Bang, the only reason why people overdo it with ice cream is if they are

distraught by something. Just like Penny diving into a two pound ice cream container or a

gallonsized container. The way it is always portrayed is a family sized container, something

bucketlike and a person usually a female crying and pushing her spoon into the white concoction.

Or the chocolatey one, though it is usually white. It is the equal of overdrinking in order to

89
soothe some emotional distress. Author here did not have that much of ice cream, well, it was

500 grams apparently. 500 milliliters, a glass full of ice cream. That place sells their ice cream in

mason glasses, mason jars. It is as much as a tub of Haagen Dazs or Ben and Jerrys. They are

not that big, Safeway has much bigger tubs that cost far less. And the ice cream that author here

bought is designer ice cream and even more expensive but definitely not that better. All these

designer icecreams have funny flavors and that is what actually makes them quite gross.

Unusual, you know, potato is an unusual flavor for ice cream but who would eat that? Some

things are better traditional, especially icecreams. There are boozy ice creams, they usually are

not that good. Liquor should come straight, stirred or something. What was the Bondian order of

how to drink some weird concoction? Stirred something, not stirred something? Who really cares

here. She has lost the thread of her writings, that seems to happen a lot these days. Dementia,

huh, seems that all of her writings here are highly demented. She has lost her literary vein, that

happens if your works are rejected one too many times by poopy-faced youngsters or other

creatures that have the nerve to reject her amazing words here. Rejection, it is not what she takes

lightly here. The noise of hands not clapping do you in, slowly and steadily. There was a book

with that title, there was a writer who said to Zadie Smith that he would only talk to her if she

called him Zean instead of Sean. Some guy from New Zealand. Maybe it was the same guy.

People that do not applaud loudly when they read yer stuff, well, they should be eliminated from

the face of this earth. Writing without being published is definitely doing her in, makes her lose

her mind and catch diarrhea because of the copious amounts of ice cream that are basically

inhaled to fill a vapid, any void here. And we are standing at 23 and 65 hundred and three, yup,

we did pen mere bullshit but it is actually the wordcount that counts here. Most readers fall

asleep anyways while reading. Yup, whatev, whatev here.

90
343.

So, is Charlie asking, do you read a lot. No, I bingewatch though. TV, you know. She ponders if

that will be the right answer. Probably not. And that is why Charlie does never ever call. Ah,

whatev, whatev here.

344.

So, still dreary weather outside. In May. The weather in May here.

345.

On telly, Pix Eleven here.

346.

23751.

347.

It is so unusually warm today, so the voice on the radio. A female voice, maybe a thirty-one year

old voice. The voice of a thirty-one year old, maybe thirty-two. These are her observations, her

thoughts, while it is back to the place near to the writing pad. Well, obviously, technically the

laptop, she is into describing everything and anything so very correctly here. She scours

grammar sites, there is a woman named Doctor Maeve Maddox, she is a stickler for correct

spelling and correct grammar, all these lil tips online here. Author reads a lot about writers these

days, how their lives are, what they do all day. Apparently not much, they hang around the house

and do just a minimum of writing, the rest is just killing time some way or another. You cannot

constantly write, there are long and longer pauses all sprinkled in between writing sputs, sprints

here. There is this place in New York City where they teach you how to write, it is so very

91
expensive, two hundred bucks per day. This better be good, 200 per day, twenty bucks per hour.

That better be good, better be good here. You cannot teach writing, you just have to buckle down

and do it. Produce a certain amount of words each and every day here. 2397, the coffee was nice

and warm, hot even. The barista had curly hair in the back, some upsweep that made author here

wonder if it is natural or if he combs his hair a certain way under the dryer to get that look. He is

very thin, the other woman is fattyish. So much to watch, people that are basically un-interesting,

so is the day what with blas sunniness that is a tad too much already at seven in the morn. Make

that fourteen or so after seven. The music on the overhead is so-so, you want to sing along but

the melody is off and you notice that you did not recognize it, the notes fooled yer. She will go

back and type about these fifteen minutes and then she will wait until it is Friends, Bonanza or

Diagnosis Murder. A steady supply of old-time telly, that is what you do when you respite from

write. There is something up in the eve, something called industry nite at the art skool, seven to

ten. She is not industry, she supplies art work, does not buy it. She wants to sell her own stuff,

the paintings rotting in the attic. Basement, whatever. They are tucked away, somewhere, stored.

There will be wine, red and white, there will be finger foods, nice ones. She has to dress up,

maybe a skirt. Maybe not, nobody needs her there and she can do without it. Watching TV is

more fun here. An unemployed artist, now there is a first here. The melancholia, the one that

Duerer depicted here. 24237 words, maybe some 24236, the overuse of the word MAYBE, yup,

maybe that is how it is here. Her writing sucks, it always always does here. Nothing 2 say

nothing to say.

348.

There is this thingie down in Oregon called Bridgetown, it is a comedy festival now in its tenth

season, tenth year. Ten years of Bridgetown and people dressing up to sit on chairs nicely in a

92
row to laugh and applaud here. You can see this stuff on you tube, but it is more fun with others

in a room doing all the same thing. There was this bit about how people want to do things

collectively that is why they go to libraries and bookshops, to coffeehouses. But that is not it, the

bit she read was somehow different, had a certain angle and she cannot remember where she saw

it, where she listened to it. The problem is that she reads too much and watches too much stuff,

she cannot remember who said what where. That is the problem with quotations, how do you

choose whom to quote, what to register and put out interwoven into ur own words here. Maybe

that is why ppl write fiction, they just make it all up. Make up new worlds, persons that do not

exist in reality. 24453, she listened to this bit about the Whopper Junior, yeah, funny stuff here.

349.

The writing is done 4 the day, now go out into the real world, you churned out the right amount

of words for the day. The weekend is near, the weekend for a writer. You dont really do

anything, you dont even do anything. You think about whether to use up the word even or the

word really, ah, what a boringish undertaking here. Especially, if you are not compensated,

none at all here. Might as well stuff as many grammatical errors into the text as possible. Who

will read this anyways, who in her right mind here? Do not read this, do not read this. It is all

sucky words from here on.

350.

24583.

351.

Five hours ago she was here. Typing up her journal or whatever this is supposed to be. The

nonstory here. Now we are at Two and a Half Men. The original one with Charlie Sheen. Outside

93
the sun is shining. Weather nice, we could go out for a walk to the coffee house in the village.

The one on the other side of the coffee house in the morn. It is always packed at this time. People

with nothing to do but hang around a coffee house. Lots of retirees who all seem to know each

other. People who converse in Greek or Mandarin. On the telly, Berta and her snarky

observations here.

352.

On the train, any train. A fictional train and a landscape, everchanging and outside of the

window. Nah, this does not work, fiction writing is not her thing as of yet. We have to slowly

evolve into that. Become a fiction writer without even knowing here. There are creative writing

workshops all over town. For all those aspiring writers here. Everyone has a book in them.

353.

There will be an election in two days or so here.

354.

There has to be some writing done here. In between differing sitcom reruns, between all those

laugh tracks. Her story is a description of the in-betweens of the more important milestones in a

story. Observations of the everyday here. She did the drive-thru thingie at three in the afternoon

and now she has a tummy ache. Big Macs do that to yer. The sun was shining, people from the

high school were there, the woman in the drive-thru window smiled at her, she knows her face.

The sandwich was too cold and the woman who gave her the sandwich looked at her

disapproving. You know, there are different windows, one where you pay and one where you

receive what you paid for. There was a line-up at three in the afternoon on a hot Thursday in

May. People are into eating junk food here. There still is the industry nite today, but you have to

94
get all dolled up for that. More fun to hang out here and type the amazingish master piece. The

work that will finally open all those doors to an amazing future, all the interviews on NPR and

Charlie Rose, yup, those ones ah those ones here. The celebrity status that makes her avoid big

crowds here.

355.

24983. Some more words while 2 Broke Gals is on the telly here. Oleg and his funny remarks.

Something about salami. Author had way too much food, and btw we have 25021 here. This is

what I did in March and April, I wrote parts of my amazing master piece. Ove something writes

journals, but author here just describes the stuff that everybody can relate to. The food intake in

different places here. The coffee house, the drive-thru in the neighborhood, McDonalds. The

walk thru the mall. Nothing fancy here, all the stuff that makes America America here. As

American as well, it is Canada, but still.

356.

The Two Broke Galz in Goodwill, the woman with brown hair looks like Elizabeth Taylor here.

Older than she really is, more woman than girl.

Author tries to remember all the scenes from her trip to the drive-thru. Maybe she should go out

to the coffee house too to have some more food and feel even sicker inside. Her car has a flat tire

or something, a flat tire to be. The computer tells her that there is not much air inside one of the

tires and she should really fill it up, but does not really feel like this.

357.

95
Industry nite at the art school, coffee in the coffee house, the weather is so very nice, it makes

you be adventurous and wants yer to hover around in the world. Not sit put and pen a

masterpiece. Screw the masterpiece, who needs applause and awards here. Why write a book,

there are better things that one could do with ones life here.

358.

Somehow, she thinks that it is more serious and more consentious to stay put and type, even

though nobody will read this. It is not brain surgery, we are not saving lives here. It is the

mechanical pushing down of squares with a white letter in the upper left part. The mechanical

typing here.

359.

Prince Philip and retirement. Just sayin.

360.

Still some more words here. Against the rerun on the telly. Outside the still reluctant sunniness,

she could still dress up and go down to preview nite. The festivities. On the telly, still another

rerun, they keep coming constantly. every half hour a new one. And they are all the same, some

snarky remarks, some laughter in the back. You know when you have to laugh because the

laughter on the telly tells you WHEN. Coffee house, drive-thru, walking in the neighbourhood,

everything is better than all of this typing here.

361.

She read 5 pages, no, actually she wrote 5 pages here. So many words, so lil meaning.

362.

96
She has to go out, the opening will give her fodder for her words, you have to observe, look at

real life happening, only then can you come back to your studio and pen the all-American

whatever here. Yes, we know, it is Canada.

363.

The movement thru the city, maybe she could write better if she lived in the city. Around here,

there are only houses that look like each other. Rowhouses that are not really rowhouses.

Boredom materialized here. That is why we need to go down to the preview nite which will start

at seven. Drink a glass of wine or two. Get slightly tipsy. Catch the bus home in time. Something

like that. Real life has to happen.

364.

Some more words here, the story of this particular sitcom is pretty funny. It is the one by the guy

who did that home repair show, Tim Allen. This one is called Last Man Standing here. It is kind

of disconcerting to watch telly while typing. This does not go with that. Seems clear that we are

not doing the art opening thingie here, there is still time though to go down to the coffee house to

have something called flat white. A coffee drink invented in Wellington. Which is either in New

Zealand or in Australia. Somewhere down under. Obviously, she is no geographical genius here.

365.

Six forty. If she drives now down to the art school she will not find a parking space here.

366.

The show is funny, the grandkids finding a love match for their grandpa. That takes moxy.

367.

97
25702 here.

368.

She has written some 3000 words in one day. There have been days when she penned ten thou.

All equally unpublished here.

369.

There is something passive aggressive about writing or more like aggressive, period. Typing is

so totally different than making the pen glide over the paper here.

370.

Seven oh five. She reads about Handke. On the telly, it is Don Lemon. Apparently, Handke

wrote a lot about writing. She knew about that. All writers reflect on what they do, more or less.

The boredom, the repetition, apparently, Handke said that or maybe not. You never know when

the author said something and when he was quoted. Anyhoo, still writing here and industry nite

must be starting up now, five minutes ago, to be precise. Apparently there was a two hour long

brouhaha in the theater, where designers talked about their work. The festivities are starting now.

There is some kind of performance too. Anyhoo, we are not there, we write ah write here. She

could go down to the coffee house and have a latte and look at people and inhale what is going

on next to closing time. It is always interesting to do that, she watched this movie that showed

different construction places in different shades and colors. There is something about places that

do not have many people in them but that are built for more people. Desolation, dislocation, the

romantic feeling that they induce. It is better to write about the blues, about melancholia. Music

in Moll, not Dur, as the Germans would say here. 98 pages, she has to write some more and then

she will have 100 here, double-spaced, in twelve point. Times Roman here. Just type here and

98
type here, when you are down on this page you will have typed up one hundred pages. Well, not

really, you will have finished 99 pages. It is all in the way that you count all of this and if push

comes to shove it is about the melody of the words. But that too is about cadences and the like, it

is all very physical here. She could explain this in better words, clearer words, more accurate

ones here. On the telly, Trump again, always Trump here. His daughter just published a book and

it did not have good reviews here. None whatsoever here.

371.

Some more words and then we can call it a day here.

372.

The preview nite, maybe it is a mistake to not go there. She is alumna after all, she went to that

school, even though she hardly ever does something visual here. Words are non-visuals, how did

she ever slide into using language instead of forms and shapes and color? The grass is always

greener, yup, she had enough of drawing and the siren song of writing was way too strong here.

Yup, let us go with that narrative, why not, why not here. Besides, there is something addictive

in a futile undertaking, the trying to conquer the summit while it slides away, farther, ah, farther.

The romanticness of the failure, that kind of perverse siren song here.

373.

Success as a writer might destroy the ability to write coherently, yup, let us go with that story,

why not, why not here.

And now we are on page 100.

374.

99
Somehow, she did the math wrong.

375.

Her back hurts, actually, the part between her shoulder blades here.

376.

There is some weird smell of eggs here, scrambled eggs. Somebody did that in the kitchen. She

feels like going down to the coffee house in order to inhale the smell of mocha.

377.

Number 300, she has this text in small lil parts, 100 pages and 300 parts, which makes it 3 parts

per page. This is not how writings are done, but who cares who cares here. Every text breaks a

little with what was there beforehand.

378.

She should have wine in the industry nite, it is fun, the talking to different persons and she

always knows people there and it has this feel of reunion and nobody really has done great. The

big time eludes all those people from the artschool and maybe the reason for that is exactly that:

the art school. It goes on for such a long time, it kills aspirations, that is what it does, what it

does here. Anyhoo, we are at the end of page 100 here, yay, ah yay here.

379.

26447, 7:29. April 4, 2017. Numbers, ah, numbers here.

380. ( edit 103, 303 )

100
2 pages by the end of this day here. Rain coming down April 5. There will be a live stream of

this years convocation at Chan hall. She will watch it all the time pondering where her last

seven years went. She graduated from that place exactly seven years ago. Not much has

happened in her career since then. Basically, she was in a state of shock. No more institution to

back her up. To legitimize her claim that she is an artist. They gave her a certificate which is so

weird. This certifies that Matt is an artist, this was the inscription on a piece of paper in the

painting studio. A play on how ironic it is to certify artists, you cannot do it, the validity of an

artistic work is in the eye of the beholder. Just like you cannot grade beauty, though there always

is a Miss Universe or a sexiest man alive. So, apparently, you can grade aesthetic merit. This is

to certify that Matt is an artist, well, apparently, she is no artist here. She did this stint in New

York though, which was ah so great. The subway thingie. She can do that again, any day of the

week. Even without being part of an organization, one that legitimizes her pursuit as an artist in

the public realm here.

381. (edit 104, 304)

She sometimes miswrites the number here, uses a 1 instead of a 3. The numbering is off, it is

kinda a random thing. It is only used to show that a new thought is starting up. A new scene. She

once did that in a film, where each scene was filmed on a different day, so the scene was

predated by a showing of the exact date and the time of the day. It obviously slowed down the

film, the natural going from one scene to the next was interrupted. No more seamless flow of

images, no more elegant moving from animation to animation. It was raw, the hand of the maker

is seen. Which can be made less boring by music, a catchy tune, but in the end you will lose the

viewer and he or she will turn around, yawn and leave the room, that is why movies are shown in

a big theater so that the viewer has no place to go and has to sit thru the boring parts. Same in

101
school, when the class gets boring, the student just picks her nose for entertainment until the

classroom teaching gets back on track again. Author here really has some fabulous insights, they

have to be emailed out to nyc and there has to be a lucrative publishing contract here. She has

one and a half pages already, she did not even start her description of the run down to the coffee

house. Well, it was rainy, though the rain had stopped, the ground was wet though and her tire

was semi flat. So the computerish thing in her car told her. She made it down to the coffee place.

A very well-coiffed woman behind her while her hair was all greasy strains and it made her feel

self-conscious. She had the barista again whose hair she wrote about the day before. Did he

know that he was part of a literary master piece? Does any of the persons that you write about

know and can they sue? Anyhoo, seemed that he had a haircut but the hair was still in some kind

of up-sweep. He is shy and nice, all of these people are, they are all very young and on their way

up the ladder. This is their first foray into the world of work here. Author here just writes, she

lacks real world experience. Maybe, that is why her writings are rejected by some young intern at

a lit agency in nyc. Anyhoo, we have now 27031 words here, the coffee house has restocked

their Thai wraps which is nice, author here does not need to drive thru the hamburger place here

in the afternoon. She could watch sitcoms like Hot in Cleveland or Friends or whatever is on at

this time here. Writing ah writing here.

So close to 102 pages of writing of writing here. If she changes the double space button thingie,

this text will be down to fifty pages. So actually it does not really count how large the text is on

the page. What she wrote before is ancient history. What were her thoughts two months ago

when this all started, she had just come back from Santa Monica and was putting her photos

online, she used to drink and had a slight alcohol problem whereas she wrote this after she

became totally sober, she always does that, there are stretches full of drinking and then there are

102
stretches without any drink. Basically, she is a nonlush, she only becomes a lush for certain very

short times of the year. Which brings her back to her favorite theme, writing and drinking. Are

they related, are they nonrelated here? She will have a glass of wine if she goes to the opening in

the evening, because how can you be at an opening without drinking here.

382.

Welcome back to where u left off 11 minutes ago. So you can write and write here. In this room

while there is no noise, well, except the noise of this light, the noise of the neon, the humming.

The hum of the mechanical thingie. Everything seems to be a thingie today, the only human

interaction she had was in the coffee house, the smile that was not really a smile by the barista,

the woman that was well coiffed and did avoid her gaze mainly because her hair was not well

coiffed, author here ponders if she is describing the scene with grammatically correct language.

Obviously not, the SHE should always refer to the last person you talked about. That is why a

picture is worth a thousand words, not a thousand and one, not 999. Her writing sucks here,

nobody will publish this BS. But we write anyways, we push down little squares in order to tell

ourselves that we have done work. How would this be if she was part of a writers studio,

different, better, worse. A writers lab. A computer lab where writers live. A communal space

where texts are produced, texts are fashioned here. 306, welcome back where u left off 20

minutes ago. She is experimenting with the sequence of her sentences which is not necessarily

good, if you experiment with form it gets confusing. It becomes strange and weird before it is

hailed as genius. Anyhoo, still typing and still typing here.

383.

103
Nine seventeen, a rainy day, though one cannot hear the rain coming down anymore. The clouds

hold in the wetness, in the morn, the rain was so hard that it woke her up.

383.

Save this, save this, her amazingish words that she puts down here, the construct that is fleeting

here. But just as good as what real men in real hardhats and real boots with steel in the leather

where there are the toesies, reinforced working boots, do. They construct the buildings that will

house her words, neatly bound into lil books. Somebody has to fashion those texts and it might

as well be her. Even if her words do not really make sense, are too much out there. There is no

story, yup, that is one of the critiques that one might hurl against her words. But Knausgaard

described his own life, so did Peter Handke. Writing is always about the writer and her thoughts,

she is female which might not be that good, maybe the deep voices of stern men with more facial

hair than her are the voices that are publishable and marketable. Gotta ask Farrar Straus and

Giroux here, they look at your work even if there is no agent as the in-between. They judge your

words on their merit or maybe equally nice reject it. But it has authenticity, if there is no

gatekeeper no middleman, no middle woman here.

384.

104 pages in two months, her writing is definitely going slow here. She churns out double this in

a quarter of the time in November, her writing sans deadline is slow so slow here. Whatever

happened to being prolific?

385.

It is nine and twenty-six, the rain has started up and one can hear it coming down, the wood

inside the walls cracks, she can touch the isolation of the writer, this is her existence, the utter

104
utter isolation of the writer, any writer on this planet. That is how you follow thru, it is the

concentration with which you push the words thru. She likes it, it is easier on her hands than

drawing lil smiley faces here. And stop, no spellcheck, none as of yet. Her M.O. has changed,

she now churns it all out only to go in and edit at a later date in one big swoop here. Gotta

change it up, just to keep it fresh. Or someting like that, something of that kind here.

386.

She wrote four long pages already in one sitting here, work does flow pretty good on this rainy

morn in May. Later on, she will watch those images on the telly, the TV hiccups and one knows

that it is on here. She just has to push the button to make it work here. Flat screened tellies, they

are weird.

387.

Still some more words here. While it is rainy outside. While the telly is on. Different shows,

apparently, it is Cinco de Mayo. Cooking shows. And now the King of Queens here. She does

her gymnastic regime in front of the telly here. Walking in place. As if you have your 10 000

steps inside. Which you have to do anyways when the weather is like this and you cannot really

drive out because you have a flat tire. You are in here and write a tad and the rest you are cooped

in thus you have to make the best out of this. Not eat too much and get exercise. There will be

better days, after all, summer is coming. Today it is all about being stuck in here in your home

office.

388.

The interface of the word processing program has it all wrong here. She was not on the computer

ten hours ago, she was on it twenty hours ago. Or maybe the interface had it all right, she just

105
glanced at the little writing for a split second. Social media, huh. All these machines that talk to

you in English. Siri, Cortana. Who needs real friends, youd rather have virtual friends here. Her

new thing is LinkedIn, she now has 31 connections. Connections that she has never ever met in

person. They are all somehow related to acting or the arts, all because she had three connections

already, one with this acting place at the local university and one with this art school

photography major, whom she has never met but who asked her to be connected. LinkedIn is

really weird, she once told a person that she was his connection and he did not even know, seems

that people just ask for connections randomly here. Another person asked to be connected, a lit

agency intern in nyc. Then LinkedIn charged her for her two accounts some 200 bucks per

month, it took her forever to get reimbursed for their mistake. Linked-in, huh. She is self-

employed, so that does not really make that much sense here.

389.

So, she is connected with 25 people on LinkedIn, 25 that she has never ever met and that she

definitely does not feel like meeting. Well, one person she knows but the rest, nah.

390.

Five and fifty-three. A walk to the coffee place on forty-ninth. Different people, different persons

here. Women who work on their homework. A woman with a little dog in beige and a kid in a

long skirt. The tea and the banana loafy bread. On the telly, a man talking here, very slowly. The

journalist interrupts him, apparently, he answers too slowly, every minute counts here. The sun is

shining and boredom in the little town is happening. Well, the lil town within the big town here.

391.

On top of page 107.

106
392.

28517. Her writing comes down onto the keyboard just as languidly as her walk around the

neighborhood is here. The slow, slow walk because of the bad knees. The bad writing because of

the diminished intellectual ability. Everything has slowed down here. She read something online

that she penned some ten or fifteen years ago, it was so much more eloquent, so much more

acute and accurate here, she cannot pen stuff like that nymore, anymore here. Nowadays her

writing is ah so blah, the ability to write good has left her ah so long ago. Just because she is the

same person does not mean that she has the same ability to form up sentences. These are the

words of her old self and they cannot be as good as the words of her young self here. Master

pieces are penned when somebody is twenty-three, after that it is all downhill, all downhill here.

Words of wisdom, nah, the height of your wisdom, the peak of your wisdom is at twenty-three.

And after that, you just ramble, ramble here.

This is a nice enough outlook, she should be in this residency or that workshop here. Instead of

wallowing in negativity, in self-pity here.

393.

She has one page here. On the telly, a solemn documentary.

394.

Something about the Israel-Palestinian conflict.

395.

Killing the Count.

396.

107
That was the name of the documentary on Aljazeera here. But now it is a docu about doping in

sports.

397.

Six and thirty in the PM. On a sunny eve in Vancouver. Nothing is really happening, we have to

describe stagnation here. What a difference a day makes, the day before she was in the Grad

Show on Granville Island, so many people, so many people here.

398.

That is why she is staying put here to type up her masterpiece here.

399.

Green flecks on the darker greens outside. Sun kissed or something here. No story, just a

description of desperate stagnation. On the telly, a person talking about the count. Fast-paced

music. Then quietness. A violent death. This was a long time ago, one hundred years or so.

424, sorry, 324. ( 400 edit)

Bookwriting, so that you have something to do here. A longwinded diary here. Her way of

writing has changed for the worse, she types and then will edit it all later in one big whoosh.

Which is not good, it is much better to write a tad and fix that and then go on to write some

more. The monumentality of editing 300 pages is annoying, and it will be in summer, at a time

when it is horribly hot here in this city.

401.

108
The coffee house, the coffee house here. All she does is describe coffee houses. No action, just

people that drink hot beverages. Well, better than people getting wasted left and right here. The

night before it was Cinco de Mayo, the Irish pub was happening, happening here.

402.

Sometimes in life you meet people who will change the course of your life, those people are

called bartenders. This is the inscript on the chalkboard in front of the pub next to the art school

here.

403.

She did this horrible thing, ran after a bus as if her life depended on it. Somebody said you will

get yourself killed and he was right, who runs after a bus if cars are coming and can drive over

yer. If the light is red you stop, you do not run over the street, who the heck cares if you miss the

stupid bus. So you will get to your destination later but you will get to your destination in one

piece not in several pieces. The machines are bigger than yer, if they drive over you that is it.

Every kid knows that. So the woman behind the wheel ignored her, so what, there was a bus

right behind her but author here did not know that. So she suddenly sprinted to the next station

which is just 100 meters away, at that site in downtown, the bus stations are very near to each

other, like every 100 meters or so. But you cannot jump over the very busy intersection at West

Georgia, you get yourself killed as that young kid observed. Well, luckily the cars were going

slow so nothing happened and she looked if there is a car coming and the black big car slowed

down, but still, you will cause an accident here. Besides, the car driver might wonder wtf, who

will sprint in front of a moving car in downtown, the car has green light, it will speed up and

drive, so what is going on in somebodys mind to sprint in front of the car. And for what? To be

109
at home here while somebody is doing kitchen work in the other room and stinking up the whole

place with onion, sharp onion. She would have been much better off staying in downtown, the

weather is nice and everybody is in downtown or the mall. So she writes a tad, she can do that

later on too. Maybe she will take this computer down to the coffee place and do her writing over

there.

404.

So now she is in the timmys on 49th, sorry, make that 41st. her seat is kind of weird, she can see

the girl scout cookies ppl from here and she can be seen by everbody who comes in. The monitor

is not well-lit, it does that when it works on battery power. And she walked thru the

neighborhood with a laptop under her arm, which is way too bulky for being hauled around like

that. Well, luckily there is no rain in sight, so maybe this will work out after all here. There are

youngsters who are doing their homework but they do not type feverishly like her, they just read

what is in their folders. She on the other hand is sitting in a donut shop and is typing up her

masterpiece which is weird because this is not that kind of place, not one where poets sit, only

young minds frequent this place not artistes who are not going anywhere. Every coffee house has

their own clientele, this place is for retirees or schoolkids. The in-between crowd runs errands or

does yoga. 29587 words here. Still writing ah still writing here. It is better to be here, no sharp

onion smell that makes your eyes tear up. Tomorrow, she will be 62, yep, quite an age here.

Actually, at ten in the eve it will be her birthday, after all, she was born at eight in the morn

Hamburg time. Or maybe later in the day. But it is nine hours before or after the time here, that is

for sure. Nine hours time difference, they are nine hours in advance of pacific time here on the

west coast. She ponders if pacific time is always on the west coast. West coast of what

110
continent? She sucks at geography here. Just ballparks it and usually she is pretty wrong here.

And still typing and still typing this up here.

405.

An old woman is leaving, she and her young friend. Her nurse or something.

406.

Author here hopefully will never ever be like that, at this time she can definitely still walk

everywhere by herself. Though sometimes she seems to lose it like about two hours ago when

she chased after the bus in the middle of downtown and got near to be killed as the young guy

with his gf acutely observed. Who the fuck would run over a busy street? She was kind of pissed

off at the arrogance of the driver and maybe that is why she ran, but you cannot do that just like

Doctor Dao should have listened to the men in uniform. They have all the power so you have to

listen in to them whatever the fuck they are ordering you to do. She liked the quip by Anthony

Bourdain that he listens to the people at the border or in airplanes, well, he meant the custom

officials and TSA as if he is an often convicted, well, convict. People in uniform are on a power

trip, it comes with the territory. If you had a uniform you would act the same. There is something

about authority and if it is given to someone they will abuse it. Automatically. That is how the

cookie crumbles. Besides, she did not have to bang on the bus door, you cannot do that, because

what if the bus moves. It is a bus after all. So she did it a tad wrong, she thought that she does not

need to stop mainly because there is another bus behind her. So what. It was a misunderstanding

but nothing would have happened to that driver and everything would have happened to her

when she was fiercely running after the bus. Author here finally has something to write about,

finally something has happened in her otherwise so very boring and repetitive life here.

111
407.

So she has her obligatory two pages already, she can leave now. Or listen in to people talking

Mandarin or Cantonese. This being Vancouver, this is what everybody speaks here.

408.

School is out, so why are all these people studying? Apparently, school is not out here. Author

here is taking this online course but she is basically ignoring it. Which is horrible. It is a very

nice course, a Harvard Extension course, online and free. Intro to architecture, who would not

like to do that? The problem is that they give you one year for that, so life kind of gets in the

way. If you are taking a course you should have to pay and you should be graded and there has to

be a deadline. Otherwise you are not doing it here. And even her writing, it is just that she made

a pact with herself to type up two pages each and every day. This is how stuff gets done here.

409.

She is now on LinkedIn, busy trying to get those 500+ connections. She is still at 27 connections

but that is much more than she had just some mere two days ago. Who are these people who

agree to be her connection, they have never ever met her. Apparently, 44 people looked at her

profile, those are the ones that ignored her invitation. Or maybe 27 of those 44 were ok with

being her connection. Make that 24, because she had three connections when she started out, and

only one of those she knows here. Apparently, she could be ousted by LinkedIn if somebody

complains that they do not know her. She now sent an invitation to the person who rejected her

for the master program at SVA, well, one of the three that she talked with online. He apparently

is a young admission guy who graduated with a stop motion degree three years ago at SVA. That

happens with art school, you end up working in admission. But if youre young, you will move

112
on. Author here did not even make it to admission in the art school, the only thing that she can do

is write and whine to the keyboard, to the monitor here.

410.

Writing, huh, writing here.

411.

30424. She wonders if she was really a trouble maker in art school and if that is why it did not

work out. She definitely liked the works that make fun of the art school by far the most. There

was one in the foundation show and one in the grad show. Institutional critique, well, sometimes

you cannot really afford to make fun of something that is more powerful than you. It is just like

running after the bus, if it runs over you nothing will happen to the bus but everything will

happen to you. You will not even survive to tell the story and reflect about it.

412.

30535, an old couple is sitting here, a bus is driving by. Kerrisdale village on May 7, 2017. A

woman is coming in with a stroller and a younger kid behind her. Author here bought a Canadian

maple donut, she had to purchase something to use this table here. Though it will be too much,

she had all her calories already. Two banana loaves and a Thai wrap, a tuna wrap here. For some

reason the monitor sometimes gets darker and then gets back to being bright. It does its own

thing. Ah machines machines here.

413.

There was a marathon run today, the BMO run. She was in metrotown and in the gym on

Burrard. Her weight is fine, she apparently lost some three pounds or so here.

113
414.

30662.

415.

Start up where u left off an hour ago. She had no idea that an hour of her life went her by. She

really did not do anything but was a tad on Facebook and on yahoo, conversing with ppl. and an

hour went by. She had a donut, the Canadian maple one, she had a latte, which is way too much

caloriewise, and it is not decaf here, this woman told her that she never ever has coffee in the

evening, anyhoo, typing still and typing still here. There are the regulars in here, this one guy is

always here with his computer and he always wears the same black t-shirt, he seems to live in

this place, the three Chinese students are still here, one of them seems to peruse the internet more

so than doing work. There is something called week that u r away from screen, and today is the

last day of it, maybe author here should be away from screens, it totally messes up her life. You

should have a life, not stare at a screen, that is why you chase after buses in the middle of a busy

street, staring at a screen does that to yer, you cannot really function any more. And you thought

it is dementia, nah, more the staring at a screen syndrome, the inability to converse with real

persons, the inability to interact with real humans, something like that, something of that kind

here. Interpersonal nonskills. Social dementia. It is the problem that is caused by the city,

modernity, urban life. Or whatever whatever here.

416.

The woman who changes the garbage bag in the coffee place makes more money than her, you

cannot make a dime with typing up words. Except if you can sell your movie rights, and who

would be the actress that plays yours truly here? Angelina Jolie, maybe? Nah.

114
417.

She is tioo yesterday.

418.

30985. Some more words and we have 31000, quite a number quite a number here. Exactly

31thou it is it is here.

419.

It feels so much more professional to write in this place here on forty-first. Writing as

performance art, it is nice because there are others here. The best writers studio ever, the door of

this place is open, it is sunny outside, once there were two persons who came in with their

walkers and author here did not know if they wanted this place but apparently not, the woman

got a box of donuts apparently, anyhoo, still typing and still typing here. Outside the cars drive

by, a white sportscarish thingie with wheels here.

420.

She had latte but she mentioned that already. Or she said it on social media, somehow, she is not

quite sure which is which. Everything falls on each other, merges. Life is confusing, it always is,

it always is here.

421.

In two days, she acquired 28 LinkedIn connections. In a mere 2 days. Two days ago, she had 3

connections, two days later, she has 31 connections. Nothing really has changed in her life.

Which shows how irrelevant LinkedIn really is here.

422.

115
Two minutes after one, a not so rainy day. Its ur b-day, yay. Google knows, there are candles on

her site.

She is at home, for now, though she was outside, very busy, coffee place down on Arbutus, then

the bus up to forty-first, then Oakridge, the bank, then downtown and then the drive up with still

another bus. Quite an undertaking, she is quite pooped, it took quite a long time, from 9 to one.

Four hours of basically doing nothing, just running errands here. And it took longer because of

the use of public transit here. Watched Friends, the one where Monicas friend is not happy that

Chandler and Joey think of him as old here.

423.

She had a lotta observations and saw stuff that is worthy of describing. The problem is that it all

mushes together if you do not take notes or take pics here.

424.

It is not hunger that is for sure. More the longing for icecream or/and pudding. You have to have

a life, a life that does not revolve around food or/and booze. Maybe writing will do you in.

typing random letters while the laugh tracks splash against Alan in Two and Half Men. There are

better lives, more meaningful ones. Sitting and writing, what kind of life is that? She hates each

and every minute of it, it sure feels like work. And maybe that will make her be publishable, if

you have to force yourself to type, then you are officially a professional writer. The grit of

forcing forward even though you would rather be anywhere but in this weird office here. Self-

employed, what a bunch of baloney. Cottage industry, ah, whatev.

Her writing sucks, life sucks, having a b-day sucks. Getting older sucks. She watched the show

of Married with Children. Al Bundy has said it all bout b-days here. She could go out and have

116
a tea or something, anything but staying inside here. She hates the inside, loves the outside. In

here it is just this stupid typewriter, out there it is full of movement, motion and excitement, yay.

425.

Its like walking around in a movie, that is how this audio tour place markets its tours. Actually,

Conde Nast described the tours like that. Like walking around in a movie. That is how art should

be, that is how writing should be, good writing. It is like walking around in a movie. That is how

fiction is, a book, it takes you into a different reality. Film is like that, music is like that. It takes

you to a different place, it is like walking around in a movie here. She has to sit put, she did

enough walking already. Now she has to write up all of these words here. Part of the writerdom

of this world here. It is now near twelve in Hamburg, May ninth is so near to start up here.

426.

Yup, we have now 36 connections on LinkedIn. Amazing, a dream come true. Move over, all

you 500+ creatures who roam this planet. There are some 500 million LinkedIn users and author

here ponders what to make of this. What can one write about all of these statistics here. Nothing

really, it is just a number here. And we type this up and type this up here.

427.

An amazing book here. The right marketing will make it move into the local bookstore. Strategic

marketing here.

428.

Her career as a writer. Writers do not need to be on LinkedIn. Sure, that is how it is here.

429.

117
Thirty-seven connections on LinkedIn, well, 500 plus it aint.

430.

She feels sick, had way too many chocolates. This company sent a box of chocolates to her, they

do it every year and every year it does her in. Life is like a box of yup, and then you just want

to curl up in a corner and barf. Please do not send me chocolates, it is a horrible way to have a b-

day. Al Bundy was so right here.

431.

So now that she has 37 connections on LinkedIn, she walks differently here. Apparently, it is so

very important here, though not in this what she does here.

432.

31894.

433.

Writing, we write here. In the morn, a foray into the real world, tons of bus rides, a walk thru two

malls, a train ride here, a talk in the bank with two of those ladies behind the counter here. Yup,

life is so very interesting here. The life of a writer, so boring, so boring here.

434.

Still Big Bang and laugh tracks here.

435.

The middle of the nite, well, not quite. Three and twenty-seven in the AM, it is six and a half in

nyc, twelve in Zurich. It is five oclock somewhere and the alcohol she had the nite b4, did her

118
in. It was not even that much, but she had to go straight to bed when she was back home. Talk

about not being able to hold your liquor. Today it is voting day here in British Columbia, so get

ready here. Though she has to sleep some more, catch some zs here. She still feels groggy from

the chocolate and the wine, it kind of beat her out cold. On the telly there is something called the

Axe files. It is this person Axelrod who is on CNN. Apparently, a new show here. She has now

some 38 connections and 64 persons watched her profile. All these people all these people here.

436.

Wow, 38 connections on LinkedIn. This went fast. 40 people in three days, on May 5th she had

three connections, on May 9, 2017, she has 38 connections. Forty people in LinkedIn. Move

over, people, we too have 500 plus. If she just connects with all the alumni of the art school, she

will be there in a jiffy. For some reason she is now connected with the son of her lawyer who is

actually in law too, entertainment law. Because all of her connections are either artsy or

movieish, lots of actors because of the universitys theater group, musicians. Lots and lots of

creative field people who hardly have work except for in what is basically glorified secretarial

work. Well, better than baristadom maybe. Who knows here, she still feels kind of mulmy from

the Indian food the day b4. Everything is better than writerdom, at least it pays some real hard

cash. Authordom is nothing, this famous author once said that he made in writing the same that

he did in two hours of working as a taxi driver. And that is after being published and one of the

most famous writers of Germany. Yup, something like that, something of that kind here.

437.

32319.

438.

119
So, it is four oh four in the nite. She should be asleep but instead is working on the Great

American novel. The novel that is no novel here. It is just a descript of the daily life of some

writer here. More a typist, a person who still has the ability to push down all of the letters on her

laptop. She uses the two-finger system but that seems to be irrelevant here. There is a time and

place for coffee here, she will have coffee later on in the day. It is four and seven in the AM,

CNN and people talking about politics. Now it is Chris, Christie, boy, has he lost weight here. He

is talking with George Stephanopoulos who never ever did have a weight prob. That is what

politics is all about, who weighs how much. The rest is baloney here, sheer bullshit. It is ten

minutes after seven, when did these people wake up to be on the telly at this time. Ten after

seven in the morn in nyc here.

439.

Maybe she wrote enuf here, time to catch some zs here.

440.

32512.

441.

Apparently Oreo launches a limited edition firework edition. Whatever that is here.

442.

The Poconos. It is fourteen minutes after seven in nyc, when does this person wake up to be at

seven in the studio at Pix Plaza? Does she stay there in the nite to be so up and shiny at seven in

the morn in her red dress? Well, she sure is good as a weather bunny here. It is a Tuesday here.

443.

120
Why not write some more? She had a busy day though it is irrelevant what she did. The busy day

is more like a precursor to amazing writing. She forgets what she has done all day once that she

sits in front of the computer. Here it is all about formulating words, some text, an array of

sentences. On the telly, it is 2 and a Half Men, sorry, 2 Broke Girls. Something with laughtracks

that lives there on the screen for itself and by itself while she is typing here. Background music,

sheer background music. Sounds to keep her from dozing off, music that keeps her going. Like

the songs on the overhead when you are in spin class. Spinning class.

444.

Her book ah her book here. The life of a writer yay the life of a writer here.

445.

32729.

446.

Three and forty-eight here.

447.

Feels like donut in here, maple donut. Canadian maple from Timmys.

448.

Sitting in a darkened room and typing, yup, that is healthy here. But what has to be done has to

be done here.

449.

And we have some 32776 here.

121
450.

Stop and spellcheck spellcheck.

451.

She feels like boozing, writing, typing does that to yer. Should see the movie on Emily

Dickenson or the film by Stefan Saegmeister. Instead of being cooped up in here and typing.

Nope, boozing seems like the best, it is what writers have done for years. Though the verdict is

still out, this woman is of the opinion that it is all a big lie, a big myth. Writers write even though

they are bloody drunks, they drive despite boozing not because.

452.

And she feels like barfing barfing here.

453.

Every morning she is in there, every morning. The same people come in there, say hi to each

other. The barista, gets her order wrong but he ballparks it. You are in a rush today, nope, he

thinks that she warms up the Thai wrap but she does not. They all ballpark it, corporate told them

to. In order to have the same people in there each and every day, these are persons, individuals

who long for that kind of community but without the extra toxins of alcohol. These are barflys

who start the drinking in the morn, first thing in the morn. So it is caffeine not alcohol, big deal,

whatever makes you happy. Something to throw down the gullet to face the day and still another

day it is. One of the 365 ones in a year, 366 every fourth year. Unescapable and then you die and

will seize to exist. So many nanoseconds to make your mark here. Maybe she will go down to

the island, to waltz thru the grad show here. They have movies, pictures that move and that you

122
can watch in a comfy chair with a place for ur cup, a cup holder here. What will happen to the

auditorium once the big move is happening, the going away from the island to the nu building in

east van? Anyhoo, when she woke up, she wanted to write about LinkedIn, bout social media.

But we got sidetracked here by the adventure that is coffee run. It is some minutes after nine, not

exactly sure how many. It is a Wednesday, hump day, the day that lies solidly footed in the

middle of the workweek. For a writer, this is insignificant, she is not a nine to fiver and she

despises the fact. The structure of nine to five, Dolly Parton and the nu Jerusalem. That movie

was made by ppl who did not exist in nine to five, singers actors writers filmmakers. What do

they know of 9 to 5, it is a world they yearn for and that they cannot ever be part of. Nine to five

nine to five, ah to be sitting on the Staten Island Ferry and to be thrust into midtown Manhattan.

Well, Wall Street, actually, the ferry parks somewhere near to Wall Street, when Wall Street was

still Wall Street here. A time when people did not carry lil rectangles around and stared down at

a screen here. In the coffee house everybody who is anybody stares down at a portable screen.

What kind of life is this, what kind of life? She has a kolot to write bout, social commentary

about social media, it will sell, it will sell here. And we type this up and type this up here. So

much will happen here, there is this screening in the Rio that is sold out here. There is another

one in the museum, maybe, she will go there eventually here. Happy or something, happy and

celebrity design.

We have some 33376, yay, ah yay here. It is may tenth in 2017, it is nine thirty in the AM. A

lowly writer sits hunched over and types and types her masterpiece. In a world where only

masterpieces fashioned by guys count here.

454.

123
It is near to the obligatory two pages, the ones that she has to write each and every day so that

she too is part of the world, so that she can wallow in the illusion that she is a functioning part of

society which in reality she is not. Twenty years or so she became an artiste whatever that is, an

excuse for working days that does not really happen. Soccer moms who try, ah, well, it worked

for Patty Murray here but not for yours truly. Pat Murray, Patty Murray, you are only a soccer

mom in tennis shoes. Remember, the woman from Oregon who ran for the senate of the United

States of America here.

455.

The day that marches forward in the sprinkled greenery, not too hot and not too cold. She is

wearing this amazing B&W shirt without sleeves, the one that makes her look young, she has a

red and black shawl with it. Yup, she can go down to the art skool, her attire is great ah great

here. If she goes now, there will be parking and that is whatewt we want here and want here.

456.

She has seen all 300 artifacts, there are no new ones to see here.

457.

She should produce her artifact, here in what is her makeshift art studio. Her lab. The living

room with the laptop, another reincarnation of the kitchen table. She used to produce pics at the

kitchen table, she now writes masterpieces in the living room, the Great American Novel, her,

Move-Over, War and Peace, we are here to stay and here to stay here. With the overuse of the

word here here.

458.

124
33790.

459.

The five hundred plus of LinkedIn. there are two kinds of people, the ones that have 500+

connections and the ones that have not. If you have a LinkedIn account, it is only worthy if you

have those 500 plus. If you havent, well, that means that u are not part of the career people, you

are a mere glorified housewife. The world of white collar workers is going on without u, sans

you. Well, there are of course persons who are very different, the influencers, Barak Obama and

the like. Ariana Huffington, she is an influencer, like the Branson guy. They are like the Queen

of England who does not need a passport. Celebrity workers or non-workers. What about the

pizza boy, where does he stand? The person in uniform who hands u your Big Mac at the drive Commented [na2]:

thru. What are they doing? Where do they stand? This one woman who has a lot of different

degrees and is now working as a barista, wrote, living the dream. Apparently, sarcastically here.

460.

33876, she wants a donut or something. She had a banana loaf and a coffee with a shot of cream

in it, she had a spicy tuna wrap and now she needs something sweet here.

461.

Freshly cracked grade A Canadian egg, that is what it says on the bag she got the Filet-O-Fish in

at the local drive-thru. Yup, an egg, freshly cracked. Down in the States it has a different name.

like everyday breakfast or all day breakfast, that is how they are marketing over there. All the

time different slogans here. She is pretty full now but not too full. It is fish after all, she can have

more than one of that food. She will buy something sweet from the gas station, later in the day.

Today it is all about being put here and writing, mainly because she has house work to do. Which

125
means that she sits and watches what is on on the telly while watching the work that has to be

done. Yay 4 housewifery here. She will not be able to write for a month what with house guests

or something here. So, this is all the writing for the week here.

462.

34077. Yay here.

463.

She has 72 connections now and 114 people who watched her profile on LinkedIn. 72

connections, some more than five days ago when there were some mere three connections here.

Yup, this is quite an achievement which is definitely a nonachievement. It is only good for

LinkedIn, which basically profited off people already knowing each other here. Social media, so

strange and so weird here. Just like the typing up of words for no apparent reason here. She

drove thru and had a fish sandwich handed to her, then she went out and had a big sugar cookie

from the bakery near her house. Butter, that is the name of that place here.

464.

Had a tea and came back, yay, two more connections. 74 in total. Nothing has changed in her life

but she has connections, career connections that do not mean anything to a writer here. These are

not connections, these are numbers that are meaningless. Well, one number, just as meaningless

as Beyoncs followers here. The day that is coming there will be houseguests and it is kind of

confusing here. But hey let us type this up and type this up here.

465.

126
No more new connections. So apparently, this is how life is now. Waiting for connections. What

will happen once u r @ 500 plus? The song downtown, like the Petula Clark song? Ah, Seinfeld

Seinfeld?

466.

71 connections in 5 days, she ponders what to make of that? Is this really something to write

about? Yep, it is, because it is a sign of these our crazy times. Or something like that, something

of that kind here.

467.

From May 5 to May 10 some 71 new connections. In some mere five days here.

468.

May twelfth, 38 minutes after midnite. May eleventh was all shopping and putting out a spread,

in a very clumsy, laborious way while the rain was coming down from five in the morn onwards

until now that it is half past midnite. A day too long, definitely. And no writing to boot. She has

to work extra hard on four pages so that she will make up for the loss of writing time here. And

34450 it is, yup, it is here.

469.

Two hundred connections and somebody asked her for money for a charity. For the forgotten

kids in Brazil or something. Art for healing.

470.

So, now she has 600 or so connections. We are officially in the five hundred plus club. LinkedIn,

ah LinkedIn. On the telly, Alan Harper and the Lindsey woman here. Outside, the weather is so

127
blah here. No writing has happened for a week or so. Other stuff was happening here. But now it

is back to this. Gotta write, yup, gotta write. To make up for the week that was lost. All those

days sans typing here. Eight days of non-writing. The world stood still in lit land here. That

happens when writers die. Their oeuvre stands still and the publishers say, what now? Gotta find

a new talent gotta build it up and make it a household name. Agents et. al. People who put food

on the table because of a writers random words here. And anyone on this planet can string

words together. Anyone is a poet. There is no right and no wrong in art here. It is all da same.

Plays, movies. Anyone can be a Hemingway, a Picasso, a cellist. A Yo-Yo Ma. Well, maybe not,

youve gotta own a cello maybe here. Two and a Half Men, how nice ah how nice here.

471.

34680.

472.

Not that many words and we have some 35000 here. Which is quite a lot. Or not here. For her it

is easy peasy, apparently not for anyone. She talked to this woman who sings, she seems to

believe that there are ppl with talent and then there are the ones that do not have it. That might

hold true for music but not for writing here. With writing it is merely about putting in the time at

the typer here. She could, she could.

473.

Ah, to soak it all up in a jiffy. The Thursday morn in the coffee house. At a time when there are

hardly any free spaces, when soccer moms and late workers mingle. Hi, Helen, everybody knows

each other. The barista team, interacting with each other without stepping on each others toes,

literally or/and figuratively. The three women who either speak Cantonese or Japanese, the map

128
above the customers, on the wall, the one that shows the three coffee growing regions of this

planet of ours, in a slightly confusing, nah, make that really confusing schematic. The music that

is there and not there, that starts up in to a tune that makes you linger only to morph into some

elevator music mid-turn here. The coffee house brimming. The man that comes in from the other

side of the street. One of the regulars, all of these people are regulars here. The talk about

something in West Point Grey, the day is rainy in an indifferent way here. So mid-May, so late

May here. People are still wearing their winter clothes, rain gear and stuff like that, overcoats

that defy sun and summer here. Everybody is afraid to challenge their fate, indignance is what

rules this place somehow. Ah, to go back to type up observations, the moments in the coffee

house on the way to nowhere here.

474.

The everyday of a writer, the short moments before King of Queens. The bowl of oranges that

should not be on the short table in the room with telly and green couch, the banalness of

concerns, the spatial organization of the items on the low table. The rain that is not there but that

is ah so impending, the word stream that is there and not there as of yet. The words that had been

banned from her conscience, she had other things to do for the last eight days. No journaling of

her moments, no Dear Diary, no reflection on what occurred to her during these days. The ball

that we live on, that hurls thru the space, yep, that one, it seized to exist, it just stopped cold here.

Nothing happened in these eight days of unrelenting hiatus, if you are not putting words

addressed to dear diary into the computer, then it follows that you havent lived. Eight days that

are all equally forgettable, that mush together into one blob of, well, mush, you just now can dust

yourself up and type some more and type some more here. 35181, this better be good and better

be good here.

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475.

Five in the pee em. On the telly, the news outta Boston. The mowing down of ppl in Times

Square, the suicide of the Soundgarden frontman in Detroit. The news outta Boston, it is eight

over there. Still shiny in these parts of the world here. Time to go down again to the coffee

house, even if just to have a peppermint tea here. Chamomile maybe. Something to sip while

watching the cars heading home from downtown. The end of the workday, yup, there are

workdays like that and then there are workdays like this. Lives of writers, not really workdays.

As an artist you are the clock you can come and go as u please which basically is anticlimactic, it

makes you leave the seat in front of the typing machine one minute too many. Weird, how books

are written, how people can do that. How they can stick to the task at hand, how they can have

the discipline. It is all bout boozing, it is the booze that makes yer stick to writing. Which

apparently is a myth, the writer as boozehound, there are countless treatises that debunk that

myth. Boozing has nothing to do with what you do for a living, what you do on ur own time

when you are not pushing down lil squares has nothing to do with the quality or the quantity of

ur words. Booze, fermented anything, it is totally irrelevant to the way that you mix those picked

up parts of the language here. Those elements, those words. Still the news about Times Square,

wow, traumatic.

476.

Parts of a fight over a sandwich in a dunkin donuts, an argument here. Yup, donutshoppes do that

to yer here.

477.

130
She has two pages, two of those pages here. She missed some 8 days of writing, eight times two,

sixteen here.

35503.

478.

Still some more words maybe. The trek to the coffee house was in the morn, some twelve hours

ago. It was basically the most memorable thing that happened to her this day. It was the right

time, when the coffee house was basically a glorified cocktail party. All these strangers together

in close proximity, in this small room. So many voices, so many languages, so much to see.

Good food, good drinks. It was quite impressive, it was the right time. Later on, it is quiet and

subdued. There were people working on their computers, on their notes while talking with each

other, while talking on the phone. It was like one of those news rooms in a thirties movie, a

forties movie, fifties. The chaos in black and white. You are part of something when you are in

that coffee house, you have your drink and you are out of there. Life happens in other places, but

it all comes together in the coffee house. People from all walks of life. Construction workers,

legal teams, ballerinas. And writers like her who dream of the big time but will never ever get

there. She reads about publishing and the like, but she knows that she will wither and rot in the

boonies, cheering from the sidelines. Rge romanticism of not making it, the glamour of utter

failure here. On the telly, trump residencty, Trump presidency, Don Lemon said something and

she heard it out of the corner of her eyes, well, out of the corner of her ears but that is the wrong

wording here. Yup, the words are always wrong, that is how it is here.

35782 words here.

479.

131
This is CNN the most trusted name in news, so the gravelly voice of James Earl Jones here.

480.

Two men on the telly. Now a woman and a man. All of these people talking on politics. She uses

the wrong words, people instead of individuals, the wrong terms to describe life, stuff. Don

Lemon puts his dark rimmed glasses on his nose, slowly, in order to read a document.

481.

She will read this interview on poets and frills with a lit agent here.

482.

To sit in front of the typing machine trying to remember what she saw on her trip outside. The

early morn, the two runners, one in grey, one in camelbeige with a slightly darker tint, both

running along the street, early in the morn, to put in the fitness regime, the parts of it they

committed too, both having the expression of grit, but in a playful way, not the grit of the

professional athlete but the grit of the health conscious inhabitant of this planet. Author here has

the wrong words, she listened to one too many wrong expression, it is imperative to read good

sentences, good wordings in order to spit out the right right words here. The coffee house on

forty-first, still another runner on the other side of the street, later a person on a bike, dressed

professionally in bike gear, black and white as if he races in the Tour de France. There are police

men and women at the table in the back, it is early and they are wide awake, laughing, either at

the end of their shift or at the beginning, the start-up of their day. There is a man who parks his

car and picks up his early morn coffee, his shirt has small green rectangles and it is his last

workday of the week.

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All this on a Friday in late May of 2017 here. The weather is overcast according to the radio but

not according to what author here notices. She is not even wearing a jacket, it is nice enuf to

wear short sleeves at five, at six in the early morning here. The coffee is approachingly hot, the

banana loaf is crunchy enough with the walnut bits in it, but the coffee is really what is out of

this world here. She has it all, the whole cup, this is her fun before her writerly life in solitude

starts up here. The life in front of the machine, the keyboard that awaits the input. 36204, we

write and we write here, write this up until we hit 100000 and then stop abruptly here.

483.

36224, on the telly, Judge Milan. On May 19 at eight and 27 minutes, sorry, seven and 27. So

soon in the day here. Some writing done already, coffee house and gym and the weigh-in and the

weight is standing @ 192 point two, which is way way too much, obviously. A banana loaf and a

Thai tuna wrap, way too much food already here. A phone call to Toronto and a birthday wish,

we are done for the day. After this it is all about typing up the next best thing, the masterpiece

the all-American great novel which will fly even if it is non-American. The greatest thing in

world lit here.

484.

You are about eight feet tall, that is what the judge says to the defendant here. Author listens in

to what is going on on the telly here, while typing up her words here. After the one week hiatus,

she has to write extra fiercely to make up for lost time, for lost words here. It is a race, after all.

The race of the right amount of words here, we need to build up an oeuvre and there is not that

much time left for her on this planet. Every writer has to deliver a certain amount of words in

order to be counted in the pantheon of writers. It is so very important, it is crucial to gather a seat

133
in the array of first-rate writers. She has to be remembered long after her body has disintegrated

into dust here. So many persons write and so little of that group is canonized. All of those words

that are all equally forgettable. Only a handful of quotes survive and never ever die. All of these

words that are uttered in vain and wrote in some dissertation on the fifth floor of the NYU

library. Remember Ross in Friends, well, of course you do here. And we type this up and type

this up here.

36554.

485.

Two pages, we are done here for the day, on the telly, still Judge Milan and the defendant and the

plaintiff here. What will be the verdict, who is right and who is wrong here? Outside the rain

seems to be so near to being spat out of the clouds here.

486.

The morning at ten on a long weekend. The unofficial startup of summer. So the voice on the

radio. The May long weekend. It is May 20, 2017, a Saturday, it is ten oh eight. So much to do,

so much to write here. She can write or she can meander thru the world. Who knows which one

is better, will be better. Will she force the bestest words she ever had onto the paper? Does she

have to fight with the muse? Is hanging out in the weekend bliss better or composing an eternal

wordsymphony? The coffee in the coffee house, a woman with curly hair that she knows from

somewhere, somewhere in the distance of her past. The woman has not changed, she looks the

same as she did some thirty years ago here. A frowny face with locks around it. There is the big

landscape on the wall in the coffee house, a map of the three regions of the world where coffee

comes from. Which is not true, coffee comes from the shelf of the local supermarket. That is

134
where we harvest it from. Or from the hands of the local barista, all hot and steamy, all together

with a dark green apron and a smile here. She types nonsensical observations that she will edit

and then send out to fly thru the cloud to places in nyc and London. Her writing ah her writing

here. Each and every day we tackle this. 36847, not that many words here for 2017. She used to

write more and better. Now she types up words reluctantly, just so to be here and say that she too

is a writer here. One on the gutter, with words for the gutter. One that is forgotten, one that no

one celebrates. No one knows about except for random people who come to visit and will laude

whatever you serve them. In lit land here. There are no books in the local bookstore, with her

name on the spine, nobody knows that she too typed all day, just like Beckett and Nabokov. The

unsung writer, the one who lives her days on this planet out in utter obscurity. Nobody knows

about her songs, she does not wear white and she sits not on the second floor in her fathers

house in Amherst. And it is not 1883 anymore.

The day marches forward, people hang out at the coffee house next to the gas station, some drive

to the ferries to go down to the island, it is a sunny sunny day after all and people dont know

what to do with themselves here. 37045, the words ah the words the words here.

487.

The walk thru the neighborhood on May twenty, when it is not noon as of yet. The restless, the

aimless. Two women on bikes, talking about somebody named. Phil. Good Phil or bad Phil.

Apparently, there are different sorts of Phils in this place. The women are wearing helmets and

they have lil baskets on the front wheel. They come down the hill, are leaving the bikes to do

rgeir thing. Freefall, freewheel.

135
The small village has art walks, or something called art studios. Open studios, you go to peoples

houses and look at artwork for sale. It is nice, sometimes they will feed yer. She will do that, but

the opening was on Thursday and the studios will be on the weekend next week. The weekend on

the end of the coming week here. The sun is merciless, she gets a zucchini and an eggplant.

Small new potatoes in a bag. A cucumber. She wanted to get half of that but she needs enough

items to use her credit card. Minimum purchase, that kind of thing. She homecooked a lot these

two weeks, five times to be precise. There is something soothing in standing hthere and cut up

veggies into little cubes. The cubes of stuff that grows in the earth. Cubing different items. The

architecture of that, the sculpting of that. Mixed-media sculpture. There still is the grad show on,

until the end of this week. Different art works by differing people here. She can walk there and

look at them. And look out at the water, out at False Creek here. Instead of writing about it, she

should do it. Praxis versus theory, not yapping about doing something but doing it in real time

here. The eggplant is awaiting to be cubed here.

488.

The cubing of the eggplant. Now there is an amazing title for an amazing book. The cubing of

the eggplant. It sounds smushy, just like eggplant. Yucky maybe. Not fresh like arugula. And

why should one talk about food anyways when one writes. Eating is so different from words.

You swallow stuff, you do not sing for the world to listen. You consume, you do not produce.

There is no novelty in cooking up stuff, mixing up stuff. You are restricted by the materials you

use. She will never be a food critic. She might barely make it to yelp and then it is more about

the ambience of some random place here. Nobody can publish an amalgamation of yelp reviews,

the road to stardom is not thru yelp. Not thru trolling the internet, for stardom you write a block

of words and then agressively market it. The bloc of words here. She has 37 and something

136
thousand of the bloc already, this years bloc so far. The novel of 2017, more a diary in the Dear

Diary tradition. It is her tenth year of writing. Or her ninth, who keeps count here, who keeps

count? She will go out again to the coffee place, this time it is for a flat white. There is

something refreshing about flat whites, nobody knows where it came from, Canberra or

Wellington here. Flat white flat white flat white here. The coffee makers will wonder why she is

there the second time in a row on the same day. The eccentric woman in the blue and white shirt

here.

489.

37619.

490.

She could still type up some words. While the world outside is happening in languid sunshine.

Inside here in the studio, writing lab, inside the four walls chasing after the muse. While outside

people are sunbathing, it is what you do after the weather was terrible, so terrible, horrid for such

a long long time. You cannot be cooped inside, you have to venture out which is impossible

because she has stuff in the oven and she has to take it out at a certain point in time. She has to

stay put because even if she goes out she has to be back when the egg timer tells her to. This is

why she hardly ever does the cooking thingie, you have to be cooped up inside until all of this is

done. And it is fragile too, nobody knows why it is ok sometimes and fluffy at other times.

491.

One day she will pen a real story. Very nicely described. Like a reporter. But not for now. For

now this has to suffice. Poeticish waxing. Descripts of the coffee house down on Arbutus here.

137
492.

37807.

493.

On the telly, an Australian cooking show. They now bring in some cake with white roses on it.

Apparently, it is some elegant thingie, but it is mainly a cook-off and in a stuffy place which kind

of contrasts with the down-under accent of the people who talk. You think of Australia as this

place without formality and then you have this very stuffy occasion. People talk like surfers but

they are all dressed-up as if it is an occasion for her majesty. All with hats and well, stuffiness

here.

494.

Her auflaufthingie is finished, maybe it should have been a tad browner on top here. She can go

out and have her flat white or she can stay put and type words of this masterpiece. The more you

type, the better it gets. Suddenly the right wordings crystallize, just as if it was magic. You just

should type when it is dark outside, when there is no sun and no surf. The worse the weather, the

bluer, the better the prose. So, apparently, it is not just booze that makes the poet.

There are all of these theories about what it takes to garner the rightish words here.

495.

Now it is the red team versus the blue team. The Australian cooks. Before it was singing groups

that were pitted against each other, Sing That Thing, that was the name of that thingie. Your

pumpkin pasta, that tangy yoghurt. Singers against each other, dishes against each other.

Winners versus losers here.

138
496.

38601, sorry, 38061.

497.

She had two full glasses of sauvignon blanc. Can she write as good as she would without booze?

Sans booze? Do you pen better stuff or worse stuff? You have to be sober to ramble like this.

Waxing philosophically needs a sober mind, a sober brain. Soberness, absolutely here. The

glasses were not really that full. She can measure the exact milliliters and she has to look on the

bottle etiquette to know how much alcohol per volume there is in this precise vine here. On the

telly, Friends. They never ever age. And we type here and type here. On a Saturday in May, on

the twentieth of the month. It is still sunny outside, so it seems, so it seems here.

498.

38189.

499.

28190 here.

500.

Sorry, it is 38100 and something. So near to forty thousand words here.

501.

She is falling asleep here, which is weird because she definitely had enough sleep the nite before,

actually even during the day. Maybe she is falling asleep because of an overabundance of sleep.

Her body has picked up the signal of always being asleep, being awake is for the birds here.

139
Sometimes this happens, ur circadian rhythm gets totally outta whack and you somehow have to

soldier thru. She has gained weight too, which has to be stopped right here, right now. She too

has to be one of those Sunday athletes on wheels, that everybody had to stop for. The Tour de

France of suburbia, the one near the cul-de-sac or what looks like a cul-de-sac but is not. The

round thingie at the intersection of Vine and Third. She could go out to the studios that are all

over town or she could go down to the island to look at art here. Or she could sleep instead of

writing to dear diary here. 183f76, nope, make that 38380. Her masterpiece of 2017. Her debut

novel or something like that. Her breakthrough, her big break. The one that will make her

famous. A famed author. A woman of letters. She will be asked to opine on, well, stuff. People

will quote her, in academic journals, in dissertations that will gather dust on the fifth floor of the

university library. By now, everybody who reads this has seen Ross in Friends and that particular

episode in en ewai eyoo (NYU). Or maybe that was a different one here. Required reading, nah,

required watching: Friends Seinfeld and Modern Family. For some reason, Modern Family is in

there too.

502.

An ad for Nespresso. On the telly. She is way too tired to write but it does not make sense to

sleep at five in the afternoon. Gotta stay awake until ten and then you sleep in one big whoosh.

She is tired since she woke up in the morn, she had her coffee, did go to the gym, went to the art

thingie, came back and now writes. A regular day except that she woke up sleepy and still is

sleepy here. She could go out and have still another coffee, a flat white but maybe that will be

too much caffeine. She writes about coffee houses and this is not what should be the subject

matter for a text. Writing has to be objective, you are not supposed to flecht in your own life into

the writing. The personal narrative can and should liven up a bunch of words but it has to be used

140
sparingly. You cannot just whine about how sleepy you are. That is what social media is for,

every moment of your life eternalized in detail for the world to watch here.

503.

Five and twenty, outside the sun shining, though not as aggressive as the day before here.

504.

She could still go for a walk, still another walk here. She has to do many many walks, she has

gained weight, there has to be strict diet and a strict exercise regime to get back to the weight that

she had last year at this time. Her clothes do not fit snugly anymore, they show her rolls of fat.

There have to be long long walks around the neighborhood, one step in front of the other.

Everything but the sitting in front of a computer and the constant typing here.

505.

A coffee in the coffee shoppe in order to change the scenery, in order to have something to write

about here.

506.

38809.

507.

She could go down to the ice cream store but that is too much of an undertaking here. Maybe this

is not what one should write on, it definitely is not here. Writing has to be succinct, logical and

business-like. Everything that her words lack here. As a writer you yourself know better than

anybody else about the shortcomings of your words here.

141
508.

On the telly, a documentary about vending machines. Vending machines that sell cars. A

dealership in Singapore which is like a vending machine of cars.

509.

38899. Not much words needed to drive this up to 39000. Just the mechanical typing up of

words. On the telly, images, ads. It is BBC world news, a woman with a peppy English accent.

Which is kind of an oxymoron but she pulls it off. And now a guy, he too speaks with a British

accent and an all-American tude. He talks about sports, well, then of course it flies. Not so much

about politics, but when they talk about sports they can sound both energetic and British. Author

ponders if she managed to step on everybodys toes with her observations here. Probably. She

has to go and fill the dryer, wet clothes to be swirled around in order to go all dry. She prefers

laundromats, that is what she does when she goes to nyc or Toronto. Laundry. She packs ah so

very lite and then she basically lives at the laundromat on eighth.

510.

39057. She really has to go down to that place in order to have a flat white so that she can get

some fodder for her writings. The Sunday eve in the coffee house, so near to closing time. On a

languid Sunday in the end of May. Who will be there, who will be the protagonists that gather in

that place at that time of the week? The one barista with the cappi is the same who was in

downtown. They all meander from coffee shop to coffeeshop. It is a chain after all. All the stores

are relatives of each other, they are all interrelated here.

511.

142
She should drive-thru the place near her house, she likes that, the short chat with the person in

the drive-thru window, the exchange of food in packaging. There is something interesting,

something to explore in depth by a writer. A writer better than her, more philosophical. A

dissertation about the human interactions at drive-thru windows in late capitalism, or something

like that. People have written about that, have thought about it, there is nothing new under the

sun here. And we type and type, so lil time until Columbo sets in. One hour and 22 minutes, no,

make that one hour and five minutes. She can stay put and write up part of this her masterpiece

or she can venture out into the world to gather material for her words. Ah choices ah choices.

She went to an artsy thingy, that should have given her enough fodder for her text. But

apparently, it did not, the best things are the very banal interactions, grocery store, gas station.

And always always the coffee store, the coffee house on Arbutus here.

512.

If she goes there she has to hurry. They will close up or maybe they even closed up already

already here.

513.

And now it is Columbo time here. She missed the first 22 minutes. Who is the killer?

514.

39 and something thousand. We can drive this down to 40 000 even though Columbo is on.

Should be doable. After all, Columbo always finds the killer which wraps up the week. Each and

every weekend at nine on a Sunday eve it is Columbo, the program that wraps the week up, that

brings it all together, foots the week in cement. Dadada, the song that he whistles, his one more

143
thing, if this is what you watch it means that the week is still ayokay. If you are of a certain age

that is.

515.

The day lets out, so very slowly. Still light, everything is starker outside, stark lightwise,

colourwise here. She needs some five hundred or so, and then she can wrap this up. Her work

here done. The obsessive typing that has to be done. Real writers are not like that, they wander

humming thru nature searching for a wordsd, they look up pensively, stare thoughtfully into the

distance. They are usually white and male. She is neither, well, she is white but definitely not a

guy. Her voice is way too non-gravelly to make it in the land of poets and writers. Then again,

Bob Dylan and his horrible voice still garnered him the Nobel prize, she just listened to With

God on our Side, and it is as good as it was in 1963. Well, if those are the people that get Nobel

prizes, her wishy-washy bullshitting will definitely not bring her anywhere. She definitely does

not say something that profound, all she talks about is the coffee house and the colors and

textures of different bevs here.

516.

39660, Ann Archer is on Columbo. She is famous, she was in that movie with the one that used

to play Doctor Kildare. Where he was a priest. Anyhoo, typing here and typing here.

517.

Eight and thirty-five in the pee em, on a Sunday in May. Tomorrow will be a holiday, it is that

time of May, long weekend, at least here in British Columbia. The weather is nice, actually, way

too hot for this place. Suddenly you cannot wear your winter garb anymore, which is weird, you

are so used to warm pullovers, scratchy sweaters and a hot cusshely woolhat, the one that has

144
slight glitter on it and that she bought for five bucks in downtown, in the store inside the fancy

hotel next to her gym here.

518.

Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD. The police?

519.

I am afraid that Mr. Seltzer is dead. Dead?

520.

Sorry, 444.

39809.

521.

A blonde woman and Columbo.

522.

It is forty minutes after eight and she is typing this up while watching parts of the show here. She

is not doing her job right either way, she cannot really watch and cannot really type this up here.

523.

At a wedding in Marina Del Rey.

524.

39865.

525.

145
She has 145 pages, double-spaced, twelve point font.

526.

120 or some 130 words or so and then this will be over and she can watch Columbo in peace

here.

527.

Eight and forty-four minutes in the eve. It is still somehow bright outside, awkwardly bright,

which goes just fine with the music of Columbo here. The sounds that show that this guy here,

the bald one, is the murderer. Even if you have not seen the beginning, the music, the grimassing

of Columbo, it all makes you understand who did it after all. This is a show that does not need

your constant attendance, you can leave the room and take something out of the fridge only to

come back and watch right where you left off. Some ads in between and you are fine here.

40004.

528.

How do you sprinkle the moments of a languid Monday morn onto the page? It is that time of

May, where the long weekend lingers into a sleepy hollow Monday. It is not even seven yet or

maybe just at the cusp, the other coffee house is closed but this one is open already, the one on

forty-first which always opens first thing in the morn because cops like it and cabbies too. But

the crowd today is all weekend, all neighborhood folks and mostly men, though there are

women, there is this one lady with baby bump and this one which is a barista and works here and

is sitting amongst the customers. This place is very sleepy and very without formalities, there is

jazz music that seems to linger on forever on each tone, each sound stretches as if there is no

hurry whatsoever. This is the village, not in nyc, but it is that kind of vibe that goes around, you

146
can see Bob Dylan and a woman who is not Joan Baez but kind of Joan Baez, iconic pic from the

sixties when the Vietnam war had not even started up here. There is a man in too tight jeans,

after a certain age you have to look what you wear and better put on sweats if you want to be

looked at as a normal human being here. This is the place where an author looks out at the street,

sees the black oldtimer car and wonders what to write about, this is a story by a lazy onlooker for

lazy readers who have too much time on their hands so that they can bury their noses in books

instead of shoveling up graves or construction sites for buildings and bridges, this is a place

where one can have tea or coffee and talk about the world that happens somewhere in faraway

places and not here where there is a whiff and a glance of security, false security but security

nonetheless. The art school down on the island will have its dismount, 300 people will tear down

the exhibition that was on for some three weeks or so, author here can document it and make that

the subject matter of a new series of photographic works, the destruction of an art exhibit, the

raising of art work the storing of art work, the repetitiveness of pictures that lean against a wall

in sudden disarray here.

Or she can write about that, paint with words if that is even possible if that is even possible here

if you do not wear white and do not live in Amherst in 1883.

The day hiccups, it is not really there, this is not the time for writers and not the year for writers.

Not her kind of writers, not poetic ones, writers have to document the first year of the

Trumppresidency, stuff like that, yup, stuffi and muffi of that kind here. She has 40500, she is

happy and happy here. On a day in May, words sprinkle round and fall down on the keyboard

like birds from trees here. Her metaphor is off ah so off so off here. She has two pages and can

do other things with her life here, yup, that is how it is how it is here.

529.

147
She put this on scribd and called it 453, four-fifty-three. The scribd interface is strange and new

here.

530.

And her words are scrambled and unedited here.

531.

She dreams of being a writer, nah, she definitely is a writer, after all she has this unkempt

persona, her head in some disarrayed updo, glasses that are brimmed darkly, a face that is

elongated even though there are hints of a double chin, yup, she can pass as a writer if more as a

librarian, she is dusty enough and mothy enough, her words might be coughed up and not in an

eloquent way, her mannerisms are off but she can manage to wear sensible shoes and that is all

that is required these days to be living happily ever after in writerland. A Pulitzer is not on the

horizon but hey who wants to be bestowed upon a prize that has the name of a dead white man,

awards mean nothing anymore, they are 4 the birds they r ah so yesterday. She types up her

everyday wordcount and that has to suffice here, should suffice here. She listens in to her typing

in May, hers is the life of a writer, even if there does not exist the fame of a writer, the

recognition in the wider world, the world at large. Hers is obscurity just like the obscurity of the

bricklayer of the Chrysler building, the building still stands even if nobody knows about the

unsung heroes that erected it. The workers who have long since demised who came out from

Queens and from Staten Island on the ferry. But anyhoo, we digress, it is day in May and the

typing here is going strong ah strong here.

532.

148
There is something weird and strange about writing while the sun splashes down on the town.

She is in the coffee place, having a drink that she apparently never has in that place. The baristas

are instructed to guess what you want and what your name is, the woman with the red tint in her

hair and the always-smile, the very contented, very knowing, very accommodating smile guessed

both wrong. It is such a nice place at this time of the day and there is so much to see, she has to

go home and type up her observations. The man in green, very young, very dissertation

writingish. The weird saying of non caffeine where the term is decaf. The harsh but

accommodating sun, it is way too hot for this particular city, in other places it makes way more

sense to be this beachsunheated here. On the telly, Mike and Molly, just where she left it off

here.

533.

The coffee is hot and it is foamy. Foamy in a reluctant way, in a decomposed way. In a flat way.

Though the skim milk will make it more foamy, foamier. Maybe she should write for Gourmet

mag, maybe she too can awaken the inner Nigella to wax poetically on items that you put in your

mouth and digest here. The romance of cutting up an apple, apparently, there is something like

that to find poetics in banality. She has some forty thousand words here, some sixty more have to

come in here. Then it is the deconstructing, the thinking about each and every word, the polish. It

will sparkle and then it will be sent out. A Dear Diary like nobody has ever seen here. One that

will place her solidly with the greats of humanities literature. Every word counts, every word

uttered by every soul on this planet of ours. She used the word SOUL, that is not exactly the

lingo she uses, nothing esoteric. Hers is accurate language, that is what we are striving for here.

No wishy-washy voodoo stuff, words that cut like a knife. Anyhoo, the sun is way too shiny for

its own good, for the good of this city. Where is the rain ah where is the rain here?

149
Enough of summer already here.

158. sorry 458. (534 edit)

The coffee has to be drunk. Drinked?

535.

41238.

book two

536.

Four forty-six on Monday May twenty-second. So hot outside, so very very hot. She was outside,

took her hot coffee which at that time was not that hot anymore, just a really mellow flat white,

the temperature of tap water. She made her way to the village and then she took the bus down to

the mall. And then it was poutine and then it was back to this place and cooking dinner not really

good because her left knee is acting up and she is more into shortcuts because her knees do not

like her weight and act up showing her that she should learn how to lose weight so that she can

lug her immense body around. If you weigh too much you either drive everywhere or you lose

the weight so that you can make it all over town, all around town here. You should be able to do

simple tasks like cooking or laundry, not that she is really into that kind of domestic endeavors.

They are so complicated and take forever here. She uses the pre-cooked stuff which makes it

even weirder and more convoluted. She would have liked to use the tomato sauce with vodka

therein but it might have parmesan in it and not everybody is lactose, well, tolerant here. And we

type this up and type this up here. It is a mere 23 degrees Celsius in town here but it totally really

feels like some forty degrees in the shadow. So hot, so damndamn hot here in the city. Summer

150
in the City, just 4 real just 4 real. Her hands might be too greasy for typing this up here. You

need clean hands in order to type up a master piece here. She could once more make it down to

the coffee place on Arbutus, would be interesting to see where the thesis writer in green stands

with his work now. People who stay put and work on dissertations while she roams the whole of

the city, sees all those people in the mall in the bus, so many many different faces here. It is a

very different feel than the sitting in one particular coffee house which then basically feels like

some kind of office here. And still typing still typing here. Time to spy on those ppl in the

graphic design office in nyc here.

537.

New York Fries that is the name of the place in the mall where she had the poutine from. You

can put vinegar on it, different kinds, different colors of vinegar. Author here just had the classic

one without anything on top. A man in a British accent was blocking the vinegar place anyways,

he had a light blue shirt on. Author had something called poutine pizza in ubc, it was not very

good. She ponders if she had mentioned it to dear diary here. This she will sell as dear diary but

it is not really a dear diary kind of thingie, more a logbook. Days of our lives, days of the life of

some lowly writer who cannot get published but who writes nonetheless. She will have this

published eventually after rewriting after rearranging of all of these words here. Should be

possible, should be doable. The world of literature is hungry for new voices. Hers is as good as

any new voice.

538.

She saw this show about Amsterdam, the night before. Rick Steves in Europe. She wanted to

stay awake and see the Zurich version but she had to sleep. Well, just sayin just sayin here.

151
539.

Five and fifty-three on May 23, 2017. 41967 words. She edited her words, she will change her

mind many many times after this. Which words to capitalize. Where to put a comma. When to let

go of rules for mere effect. On the telly, the news. 42006.

540.

She was inside way too long. Surely, given, that she worked nonstop on this text here and ironed

out the very obvious glitches, not the ones that are debatable and that can be morphed either way,

she had to stay put here. But the thing is that this took way too long here, she thought that it will

be over by midday, who would have thought that it took until six in the evening and was way too

exhausting, there is no energy left for anything else here. Mainly because she might have to stay

here anyways. But this is not good, you have to get out even if it is just a walk around the block

here. Her knee is acting up, so that is part of the problem, she has to drive and she is not quite

sure if that is worth it, mainly because she might have to come back if her phone goes off. This is

not the right way of doing things, she is much happier when she is in total control of her day

here. Everything is going the wrong way, so it seems so it seems here. On the telly, the x-files,

not exactly the program she likes, it is all scary music, it is the original one, with a young David

Duchovny here. And we have 42222 here, maybe more here.

541.

Now it is Dan Lemon talking to different persons. Trump and stuff here.

542.

152
All this writing took its toll here. She is basically at the computer for the last 12 hours. Had a

coffee in the coffee shop, walked just a tad, not even around the block, just up the block, she

hung out but her main thing was the reading thru her words. Ten hours straight and they do not

become better when reading. Maybe we should change this again into editing it in small chunks,

that is easier on the body, you do not get all agitated by sitting for an indefinite time at the

computer and staring into the lite of the monitor. Well, actually, neither way is so very good, the

best is to write long hand and use a pen to mark it. Well, either way will work here. Analog

digital and anything and everything in between here.

543.

She should still go for a drive, she misses the mall. Which is closed by now. The mall and its

people. The mall walking here.

544.

Outside, there is still brightness. And wind. Sun plus wind, this does not go with that here.

545.

Still some more words here.

546.

Every morning I would go out and have a coffee. and every morning I would come home and

describe what I saw. This is a descript of what this text is about, the elevator pitch that you give

to a potential buyer between floor one and floor ten of an elevator ride. Then again, it is actually

wrong, not every day she does that, not every day she goes to the same coffee place which is

technically not implied but because of the stressing of the very day it kind of follows that it is in

153
the same place, not overtly but somehow seedingly implicitly. Anyhoo, she drove down to that

place, thru the back alleys, trying to avoid the speedbumps that are supposed to slow down the

traffic what with the nearby school and everything, she makes it down to the coffee place and the

woman behind the counter gives author here a card, if you get five drinks the sixth one is on us.

It is himmelblau, blue like the sky and one of the images of a coffee mug on the card is darker

than the other ones, maybe that indicates that you already had one, the one that you got when the

barista gave you the card. She thanks the woman and puts it in her purse, she will read the fine

print once she is at home and finds her glasses. A woman with blue shoes comes in, a man with

too much cologne stands near the milk place. Author here has described him before, he is very

slimy, and now it becomes clear that he has pure hygiene too. You do not really want to describe

offending odor in a book, there are better things to write about, the warmness, the hotness of the

drink, the freshness of the day, though it is kind of too chilly for its own good, days as sunny as

this should have more general warmness, maybe it is not quite Summer as of yet, there is a

conversation, a neighbourly one on the weather, seems it is so nice but one still has to wear an

overcoat here, depends of course on your body mass index though that is of course not explicitly

discussed. She will go home and type up observations, the main problem being that all of these

observations seem unrelated, they are diverse scenes that have actually nothing to do with each

other, there is no thread, no narrative, no storyline, these are things she sees on her walk to the

coffee place and they have nothing to do with each other, they are only lumped together because

they are all happening at the same time in the same time frame, in the same geographic

proximity. There is no story in there, no book that will suddenly make her world-famous, a

household name, and why would anyone shoot for that, what will you garner for the seizing of

obscurity here? Later on, she will drive-thru, even though she got a Thai roll here. Too many

154
calories ah too many calories here. She wants to write about drive-thru social interactions, a title

for her new book, something like that, something of that kind here. What happens in suburbia

stays in suburbia, nothing ever changes in a place like this. The sound of a garbage truck in the

distance, the distance here. Sounds of the boonies, songs of the outskirts of town here.

547.

Two pages not quite, more like one and half. We have 43023, on May 24, 2017.

548.

Pick up where u left off four hours ago. So no writing for four hours. The telly is singing its

songs. She could go down to the coffee place once more, gotta see who are the people who

frequent that place at this hour. Three oh three in the afternoon. Which is never the time she is at

that place. Who is the clientele at three in the afternoon on a weekday and does it even matter? It

might matter for the owners of that place but not for her here. And there must be more vexing

subject matters than the persons who frequent a certain coffee place. What they do and their

mannerisms. Bookwriters got to write about spy novels, political intrigue. Something out of the

ordinary. Something that smacks of escapism. She really should go out for a walk and search for

a theme for her amazingish book here. Her breakout novel, the one that will never ever happen.

Her hapless existence as a writer, her utter failuredom. She has to drink and a lot at that. To make

her forget the rejections she suffers from agents in nyc and the city of London. Writing, huh.

Who in her right mind would even want to have that as profession here.

549.

155
The news outta Boston. Five here, eight there. Here outside the sun plus wind. Just like the day

before. This does not go with that. What to write about when the weather is like this? What to

write about- period?

550.

So she is back at her writing. While the telly is once more showing an episode of 2 Broke Girls.

Time to go for a walk or something here. You know about those ten thousand steps here. Time to

put the load of laundry into the dryer here.

551.

43288.

552.

And we are back at where we just left off some nine minutes ago. On the telly, Kramer and little

Jerry Seinfeld. The one with the cockfight. Author here is typing while the telly is singing its

songs here.

553.

George, I am up for parole. Writing while watching a Seinfeld rerun. This smacks like hi-lit.

Something to read in a bookshop in Brooklyn to hipsters. Well, maybe not.

554.

TV as the antithesis to art.

555.

156
3416, sorry, 43418. Maybe she should go out and get that book named no plot no problem.

Because let us face it, not having a plot seems to be a problem here.

556.

43449.

557.

Seven ten in the AM. Now it is all about churning out the most amazing novel here. The one that

is earthshattering. The one that will change peoples lives, the one that will move continents. The

blue plan for amazing worlds. The one and the only. The great whatever novel. Great and insert

whichever geographical region you feel like in here. The novel, though it is more a negated

novel. Novels are so yesterday, they are for love hungry housewives or people in boring jobs

who fantasize about being spies. Who are todays book readers and are there even any left?

Arent they relicts from a different era? Who needs to read made-up stories when you can follow

and stalk peoples lives on social media all with pictures and videos of the real thing. Audio-

visual entertainment that takes on words anytime here, that outdoes the written word. Her dear

diary project is so enthusiastic in its banality. She should hover downtown, commute with the

rest of the ants. The new Jerusalem, nobody has a clue what that even means, not even Carly

Simon. And we write here and write here. The wordcount stands at 43 000 or so, she will send

this out to a place in nyc to be bound in a place in New Hampshire and to be stored in a

warehouse at the Jersey shore. She is not quite sure what place is where, maybe the book

warehouses are in Pennsylvania here. How many warehouses are there for books and how much

storage space do books need anyways. Is amazon the warehouse storer? Does etsy store their

stuff in Brooklyn? How do business models work and is it even relevant here? Should she not

157
just concentrate on constructing the content and worry about the business model later? Let other

people worry about how to bring her words to market?

She walked thru the neighbourhood in the morn, had a coffee and is back at the typer, all fresh,

all ready to spit out a whole lotta new words here. In different formations and she feels like

having hard liquor at eight in the morn. Because that is what writers do, they have nothing else to

do with their time anyways but the consumption of hard ah so hard liquor. She has some white

wine left in the fridge, wine does not last and it goes bad once you opened it. Maybe this is

something to write about here. Outside it seems to be sunny, her life sucks, her knees are better

and she will roll onto the couch and have the glorified life of a couch potato. After all, she did

her walking already, quite a long walk already. There were runners in colorful garb, mostly red

and blue, they were gone long before she could catch up to them, hardbodies, faster people,

persons that run while their blond ponytails rush from side to side here. The writer at her typer,

she notices that the protagonist that she made up had the wrong name, he was 23, but his name

was the name of a person who would be 83. You have to give the right names to persons if you

want them to be believable here. And we need some more words and some words more here.

43996, four more and we have 44000. This is what we did with our life here, half a year past and

we have some 50 000 words here, half a book that is reasonably readable, that can be translated

into Russian and Chinese, that can be marketed and discussed on Charlie Rose. What do you

wear when you are on Charlie Rose, what goes with the black background here? What kind of

glasses do you wear and do you dye your hair or is it better to have grey strands here? We can

provide that, easily here. 44093, 44093 here.

558.

158
It is not two pages already, we still have to provide some more words here. And then we go in

and work on those two pages and then the day is done here. The workday of the writer. She

envisions herself in a more exotic locale, the writing studio above Union Square, next to Union

Square. The one where there is a cupcake place near the entrance, the one where you can walk

down to the pizza place that has those pizza slices that are way too big and have some cream

sauce concoction on them. The pizza place that is near to the infirmary for people who do not

hear and do not see here. Oh, look we have some two pages, we can stop this and go out and join

the living here. The new Jerusalem day is over, take the ferry back to Staten Island here. Take off

your tennis shoes or put on your tennis shoes. She mixes up all of these movies, and what do

tennis shoes even mean? What do they signify and hasnt all changed by now. It is 2017, we

cannot define the world by Hollywood standards from 30 years ago here. Susan Lucci, let us

watch her, how does she see the world here? A world in which women are afraid that somebody

might steal their man.

Author ponders, maybe social commentary is not her thing here, she scrambles up the data.

And we write and write while the day moves forward silently here. There is a reason why the

most famed poet of the most powerful country is a woman in white that lives on the second or

third floor in a house in Amherst, Massachusetts. A woman that is not anymore, a woman that

wrote short ditties with questionable punctuation and we can read into that whatever we feel like

here.

She needs vodka or wine, it is five oclock somewhere ah somewhere.

559.

159
She is mulling thru different calendars in different art skools. These are quite interesting

programs but you have to commit to them. You have to be open to waste your time for half a

year or so and then get a certificate that you might or might not need. She did that two years or

so ago with her literature class and this daily writing is still an outcome of that one class. The

reading of certain texts made her try her hand at this too. I too can do that, I can be a writer. I

will write stuff that people then will read. You study how others construct stories that will be

published and read. You get better at doing this. The program that she now was looking into is

very strong on computerskills which is usually pretty daunting if you lack that kind of

background, if you do not have a technical background. You will not be able to keep up with the

coding and you will fall behind here. It is not a credit program so that is good, it is a continuing

ed program. The price though is pretty steep here. Maybe she should just stay put and write her

amazing novel, because then she can dictate her own hours. Hmm, let us see how to do this here.

560.

Forty-four thousand words, some more and we have some fifty thousand words here. Make that

forty-five thousand. Mainly she counts her words, just like others count their steps. There is

always something to be measured. The temperature of the weather, the time of day. Your money

in the bank. Your weight, your calorie intake. Where you stand in class. Your grade point

average. Your age, your height, your ability to see, your ability to hear, your heartbeat per

minute, your ability to walk. Your age, yup, especially your age. And the time is running out.

How much you make per month, per year. How many words you type up per day. Numbers

numbers numbers. Dear Diary, I am rambling here. I jump around and search out different

themes, discuss different subject matters here. It is fifty-four minutes after eight in the morning

and the lil icon on the lower right corner of the monitor changed to 8:55 AM while I was typing

160
this up here. There are more words now, more than there were when I came home from my walk

thru the neighbourhood here. Ah writing ah writing, such an endeavor in isolation here,

Robinson Crusoe at least talked to Friday here. The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner,

now there was a movie here. And we type and type here, eight and fifty-seven, soon it will be

nine, and she has some more words here some more words here.

561.

44896.

562.

Today she feels pretty good, healthy. She was able to do quite a walk without her knees acting

up, her chest acting up. She is quite the hypochondriac, wow, what is this, my heart, do I need an

angiogram, a pacemaker, a transplant? Nope, yer just need to lose some weight, after all, your

body is not built to lug around that much fat, that much lumpiness. Be thinner and you will be

able to motion thru the world sans chestpainz and sans knee painz and sans backpainz. It is pure

and simple math here. Common knowledge, common sense here. And no boozing, nope, no

boozing et.al. here. At all.

563.

45009, the forage into a novel here. The foray. So, which word is more poetic, forage or foray

and what does it even mean here?

564.

Nine oh five, on a Thursday morn in May here.

565.

161
She had had maybe a tad too much white wine here. Can you write while being inebriated?

Maybe yes, maybe not. Writing under the influence. Well, it is not writing, as long as you can

type you might be fine. You still can go back and read thru your work once you are sober here.

Obviously, you will write differently because your mind is not working that accurately, you tend

to slither into incoherence just like you tend to slither into the illogical here. There was this

German poet, Harry Rowohlt, he used to drink a lot. He is from her hometown. Hails from

Hamburg. On the telly, the Montana guy who body slammed a journalist. Well, he became

famous, so did the journalist.

566.

45171 words at ten and nineteen in the eve on a Thursday in May of 2017. Time to watch King

of Queens. There is still time to talk about what happened today, we can do that tomorrow. A

whole day to write this all up here. The minute by minute account here. She will reconstruct it

out of memory, how do reporters do it? The travellog of the day as a tourist in your own city, the

exploration of the place you live in. The look behind the curtain, into all the nooks and crannies

of this city which you did not even know that they exist. You do not really need to travel to

faraway places, there are so many places in your immediate surroundings just awaiting to be

explored here.

567.

53307.

568.

The fast and the furious write-down, after hanging out in the coffee space at a time when there

are way too many people in it. It is mayhem and she ran out after having the coffee. The silence

162
that is not there, there must be thousands of persons in there. Nine forty-two and back at the

typer here, there were scenes she could describe, snapshots. But there are other things one could

do, better things. The writing of a real story, one with a beginning and an end. Not just the

description of generic scenes, the light that reflects from a parked car, a man and his child who

are carbon-copies of each other here. Sometimes in life you run into people who change your life

for the better. These people are called bartenders. This is the inscript of the chalkboard in front of

the distillery on the island. She wrote it down, she thinks it is worth mentioning. Though to be

fair, the wine the night before merely gave her a bad aftertaste that is annoying here. But back to

the coffee place. Well, there is nothing to tell, the place is the same as always here. Nothing ever

happens except for people getting their, well, coffees. The short respite during the day here.

569.

In twelve minutes her sitcom will start up, let us see how many words she can type till then. The

day before she was all over town, had a pizza in UBC, had a tea in aroma cafe and another one in

a place whose name she does not remember. Wait, arsenal bread or artisanal bread. They had a

seat outside with a table that is attached to it. Wicker. And it is just next to the bus station and

you can catch the bus to downtown here. It was lunchtime, she made it to downtown and the gym

and she does not remember what else she did. Wait, she went to the art school and worked at the

computer in the library there. The boringish minutiae of her day. Wait, she went to VCC station,

because that is where the 84 goes here. Bus driving, train driving, traversing the city on public

transit. So much to see, so much to write about. Crisscrossing the city, aimlessly here. And

writing all of this up for generations to come. One generic day like many. The wonders of the

everyday, all documented for the world to see. The reader can relate, maybe that is it. Relatable

human experiences, we are all part of a community, whatev. Typing here and typing here. Fast

163
fast and furious here. 45745, May something in 2017. A Friday, a sunny one in these parts of the

world here. She will watch the utube movies from moma. The ones that will make you feel you

are in a studio without actually getting your hands wet here. Virtual painting, virtual mixing of

pigments here.

570.

On the telly, Friends. Outside the sun is shining. Ross and Rachel, obviously.

571.

45809. Chandler Joey and Ross. What can u write while laugh tracks roar? She could go out and

take the bus to UBC. Get a piece of pizza in the AMS, in the new building. The day before there

was a lady in pink who asked her if she is part of the conference. Apparently, a church lady

conference here.

Yup, outside the world is happening while in here we are fashioning the book that nobody will

read here.

572.

So near to 00, 500.

573.

Typing this up. Better to stay in here and listen to the clicketyclack of the keyboard here.

574.

59111, sorry, 49111. She misreads the numbers. The misreading of numbers. There is a subject

matter as good as any. She ponders maybe she makes more sense when she is tipsy here.

164
575.

Seems we have the obligatory two pages here.

576.

An ad for something Maybelline New York.

45965. Mike and Molly. So, she could either stay put and type or venture out and try to gather

scenes that then miraculously will morph into the master piece that will outdo War and Peace.

Always good to have your sights set high.

An Australian coffee, flat white. The problem is that they ask for her name to make it. And we

have some 46028 words here.

577.

The Chicago police man on the telly. The day before she met this woman from Chicago. I have

never been to Chicago, ah, you did not miss much. Ah the conversations on the bus here. A

woman from Breslau. She has to look that up.

578.

And she was in this place Curves here.

579.

Writing as a job. Like knitting.

580.

Nothing to say, nothing, nada. The writer and her block.

165
581.

46087.

582.

She gained some five pounds. So now it has to go down here. Discipline, that kind of stuff. Boy

we are weak here. That scene from Full House where Joey just admitted I am weak. No

chocolate no donuts no ice cream. Shoot me now.

583.

There are authors and then there is she here. No explosive career, no career whatsoever. The toil

in obscurity. The coffees in the morn and then the writing here. The publishing contracts that do

not substantiate. Yup, those ones. Scribd has changed its interface here.

584.

No writing on Saturday here. So, now we have to produce some two pages, no wait, some four of

em here. From page 165 to 170. Give or take some. Might as well round this off. The day before

was full of excitement, a tad too much here. The art convention, a train ride out to Surrey. A doc

about Philadelphia here.

585.

On the telly, Fareed Zakaria.

586.

65268. 46268.

587.

166
The fast morning where nothing happens here. The gas station is selling stuff or giving stuff

away. She can make out water bottles, the small flags on the stand, they all motion in the wind.

Persons are standing at the stand, in white clothes, on both sides of the table. It too has a white

cloth on it. This she sees while driving by to the parking space in front of the coffee house, next

to a car that is very beautiful. Its color is not too beige and not too yellow and not too white, just

the right tone for this kind of weather on a Monday morn. It is fresh because it is something like

a cabriolet whatever that means. Cabriolet is the term, the name that comes to mind. It has a

black canvas or some other fabric top, and the top is rolled down. The car is a Volkswagen,

maybe, but it is slightly bigger, slightly more rustic than a vee double yoo. It is a pretty car,

something about it stands out. It is mix tween a utility vehicle, and a sportscar. A racecar for the

masses. A race car for people with money who still have family values. Boy, can she talk bullshit

at ten in the morn on a Monday. Others are on the clock, punching the clock, nine to fivers, the

new Jerusalem, she on the other hand sleeps in and gets up when she feels like, has a coffee and

a pastry that is not too sweet at the local watering hall. There are others, the usual crew of the

woman who is called Helen and the man who comes from the other side of the street whose

beard is too white and his clothes are too black, so he has this look of an overaged sea bear with

too much fat on his bones. The woman has her hair open today, she usually has it in an updo,

there is another person in their group, they always are near to the window and they talk rubbish

forever. They must work in the evening or not work at all. Maybe writers and poets and artistes

just like her. The creative class in suburbia, an oxymoron if there ever was one. You cannot be

creative on the outskirts, youve gotta live in Brooklyn or else. If you write anywhere but

Williamsburg, your work is doomed, doomed, I tell yer here.

167
There are two women, then another comes and then still another. They all hold their hands over

their mouth when they laugh so not to show their pearly whites. They are young so they have

good teeth, but they still do not want to show them. They are all thin they seem to have kids, they

have this young mom look about them. They are polite to each other, they speak in a language

that author does not understand. Cantonese, Mandarin, Korean, though author here puts her

money on Japanese. They look like that, from the outskirts of Yokohama. She does not know if

people in Yokohama live in the city or on the outskirts, at least the ones with enough money to

travel to faraway places and take up shelter there. They are usually wives of young professionals

that are sent overseas, middle-management, upper management, vice-CEOs.

Behind her are three men, who asked the barista about whether they can put the fill-up on the

card of the man who is shorter. Author here describes all of this with words that are non-

accurate, there are big Frappuccino stickers on the window, life-sized ones, well, as big as a

human, much bigger than life-sized, a Frappuccino is just a small cup that snuggles into the palm

of your hand here. They have straws in them so they must be chilly drinks, frappuccinos, they are

all frappuccinos. Author here should have taken the class in New York City, the one that starts

on June sixth and goes all the way thru to June twentieth. They teach yer how to describe things

so very accurately, it is a writing workshop. With different teachers here. She feels like going

out, stop and spellcheck can wait can wait here.

588.

She hasnt written in days. Her thing is more the editing of the words that are already there.

Seems there are lots of mistakes here. Grammatical ones, logical ones. Punctuation.

Misspellings. Misquotes. Wrongful numberings. Yep, it is quite a lot that can go wrong in

writing here. Her first 40 pages, some 70 mistakes. And that does not even take the

168
misnumberings into account. And the omissions of commas and question marks here. Lots of

mistakes are debatable. Debatable glitches. Should tomato be singular or plural if paired with the

words bread and lettuce. These are so very technical issues. Construction issues. She should wear

a hardhat and overall to do this. The construction worker in the world of words here.

She ate too much, she drank too much here. She was at the airport, she was in downtown. And

now its Seinfeld, Seinfeld.

589.

47111.

8:34 on May 31, 2017.

590.

Seinfeld and George.

591.

Irish, Scottish.

592.

Btw, national donutday is coming up.

593.

There is a fascination with the words of the world. This sentence crystallized in her head, she

repeated it just waiting to get home to the typer and share this her observation, her insight with

the world.

169
She watched the video of a man in DC who did a reading in a bookstore, on Wikipedia it says

POET after his name. He seems very normal, more normal than most of the inhabitants of this

planet. He is into words that is sure, because he wrote about word structures by John Cheevers in

a piece for The New Yorker. Very deep analyses of certain word combinations, the kind you will

have in a second-year college course, a second year English college course. Why this word and

why not that, what are the implications of this word versus another. Obviously, it differs from

region to region, any literature-analytical observation just makes sense when discussed within a

certain regional, geographical context.

Anyhoo, the day is dreary as they all are. The cars are lined up on the street near her house, all

those commuters who still work in offices and who choose to take their vehicle to get to their

nine to five jobs here. People who fit the mold. Not atypical workers like yours truly here. Never

worked in an office. We write, we poetize. Shape words or shape forms. The visual or the

literaturial. Without much success here. Sans success. No fandom here. No recognition, no

exposure. Obscurity, the poet who merely sings to the birds. No mentioning in literary journals.

No interview in Paris Review. Does Paris Review still do that, does Paris Review even still

exist?

She has dishes to do, tons of them, lots of them. That will be her morn. Something to do

while the rain is coming down on the city. Diagnosis Murder is discontinued and now they show

Remington Steele instead. The rain is coming down on the city. If she was in an office she would

talk to coworkers. Here she is her own coworker, she hums to herself. Next thing you know we

will talk to ourselves here. The voices in our head, I just talk to those. I just answer to the voices

in my head, the clever t-shirt inscript on otherwise too normal looking persons. A woman with

black hair.

170
She types up her words here. She corrects the words, ponders how to deconstruct stuff. The

words we choose from a language. In the eve there is a theater show at the cultch. Something to

attend. A live performance. It is expensive, twenty bucks or so. And in a faraway place of town.

Maybe not. Live theater, huh. Ah, forget about it. There are other live performances, readings in

the central library. A discussion in a classroom. So, btw, how many words do we have here. Two

pages, and then she can stop this, abruptly here. The dishes are a waiting. She broke the bottle

opener in the cork and cannot get it out. It has to just stay there in the corner near the dishes until

somebody with more mechanical skills than author here will figure out how to free the piece of

corkscrew metal from the cork. The metal that is ensconced in the cork, stuck here, solidly

screwed in. Lots of dishes and a bottle with a piece of metal stuck in the cork. A half bottle that

was bottled somewhere in a wine region on the outskirts of Turin. Torino here. Yup, there is a lot

to describe in the kitchen, the various containers on top of the counter. This is what she has

devoted her life to, describing utilitarian items. This poet in DC, he did a reading about fridges

and about alarms. Fire alarms. There is another name for it and she cannot find it at this time.

This is how her writing works here. She was up in the middle of the nite and looked at utube vids

of Loriot and of Harry Rowohlt. German guys, now dead. The quip about how there is a

difference between caricaturists and fine artists. One group cuts off their ears, the other group

does not. It was funny and then there was this film about couples who purchase a mattress. There

is always stuff on utube here. Comical stuff. The cartoon about the egg. 47856, words ah words

here.

594.

At a later date, she has to make sure that the numbering is correct. At this time it is all off. Later

she will edit this and make sure that this is correct chronologically. It is June first in 2017. She is

171
not part of this summer residency between seventh and eighth in New York City. Where people

will learn how to write in two short weeks, you cannot teach that in two weeks, two weeks are

too short. You have to practice by doing. You have to sit hunched over at a typing machine and

give the input to said machine here. This is how this will work. At a later date, you will submit

your words and then you will be world-famous here. Something like that, something of that kind

here.

595.

Four more words and voila: 48000.

Seinfeld and Elaine, the apartment.

596.

48000.

597.

Describing people who sit in a coffeehouse, that is what I do for a living. Oh, is there a market

for that? Not yet.

She imagines conversations about the life of a writer, her life of a writer. And it is mainly this

particular coffee house whereas she used to describe different coffee houses. This one coffee

house is a stand-in, one generic watering hole. Where people of all kinds of life all ways of life

respite for moments. The coffee house on the way. It is seven in the morn on a Friday in June.

The day is awakening or some other poetic description might fit. The man in the white shirt and

the white pickup truck. There is not that much to describe except that there are lines on this shirt.

The coloring of the shirt, off-white. And not technically a shirt, more a hoodie. Something made

172
out of fleece. With long sleeves. The woman though is very distinct. Long long hair, neatly

combed. Platform shoes. A tatoo that is basically a nontattoo. Lines. Green lines on her right

forearm. Thicker lines.

The music is very simple, repetitive. Lalala or tatatata. More lala. The day is dreary, not really

June as of yet. The June that does not really happen. The promise of June, yup, that is more like

it. She ponders how she can print out images and text in one piece. How can she save that in a

file? And then just print it out here. She usually either prints out images or text. Not a

combination. There are ways, there always are.

She has 48000 words and then some. On a rainy day in June here.

598.

The boozing could start now. At twenty-nine minutes after seven in the morn. How do those

boozing writers do it? And who are they? The myth of the writer who drinks too much, who

drinks herself into oblivion. Technically it is usually a he. Somehow, she feels that she once

more wants to explore the myth of the drunken sailor, wait, the drunken writer. Her subject

matters are repetitive, she revisits her main themes, many so many many times here. The

greyness, of the day, the rain, the impending one. The existence of a person who writes and does

not make a dime by doing so. The one who did not secure the promise of publication. First you

have to have that and then you write. Writing on contract. A contractor. In her case she first

writes and then takes her wares to market. It is all in reverse. It kind of smacks of insecurity. Will

my words be good enough? Let me first formulate them, fashion them and then judge if they will

cut it. If they do, we sell them and if not, then they will rot somewhere in the corner of the attic.

If you have an attic that is.

173
The coffee house is happening now, there are more clients by now. When she was there it was

kinda desolate, the main traffic is at this time now. She could go back but that would be weird.

You do not go there twice in a row, it is not done. She could walk in the mall, there are all those

mall walkers. Boring people with boring faces. Nothing to write on. Generic humanity. Ugly

people. Good-looking people are not the kind that mall walk. It depends on your features

whether you walk in the mall or you do not.

599.

She is about to finish her daily allotment of words. I get paid very good for very little work.

Well, technically she does not get paid for her work. This is a hobby, her writing. It will remain a

hobby. Except for if she manages to make it into a profession. There are ways apparently. A

change of subject matter, there are other themes than the sagas of a writer. She might go to IKEA

later in the day. Swedish food, nordicish meatballs. They have liquor there. It is tough to get

there. Lots of buses and trains. Constant change of vehicle. Long waiting periods. In the rain.

Maybe IKEA has to happen without her here.

600.

Seven forty-two of a rainy day in June here.

515. ( 601) edit

525. (601)edit

It is five and twenty-five on a sunny afternoon on June second. Maybe it is not necessarily

sunny, she is cooped up anyways typing while the telly is quite interesting, it is all about London

and beachcombers who are hunting for treasures in the Thames. A woman with her British

174
accent and the research about stuff that can be exhibited. Something now about palaces.

Apparently, it is not anymore about beach combing, it is about the Tower of London. Maybe the

two are related, because the beachcombing was near the Tower of London. Author here did not

see the Tower of London some twenty years ago, but she could see that it was brimming with

tourists. It was a very hot day and something else came up, so she never returned to seeing the

tower. Actually, it was at the bottom of the tower, tourists were gathering in what looked like a

maze. Lots of sightseers. And now it is something called open studio. It is an art documentary or

something here. A man with a moustache is talking and he looks as if he is knowledgeable, at

least he is dressed kind of funny. He is wearing a vest, so he is talking about something artsy. He

looks like a butcher. A scholarly butcher. But the butcher look is definitely there. A scholar has

to be thinner, not sport a thick moustache.

602.

She is busy working on her dieting. It is quite an endeavor. She has had 1500 calories and given

that she needs 2000 calories for sustenance per day, she will lose the seventh of a pound today on

June second. If she keeps this up, she will lose one pound in a week here. It is all mathematics.

Calorie counting and the loss of weight here. She could go for a run but she never ever runs here.

The deficit has to be with food intake or nonintake for that matter here. She had mango and

blueberries and yoghurt and raspberries and something called arugula. She had goat cheese feta

crumble and she had a donut. It is national donut day after all. She had fish and she had a

peppermint tea. A coffee and cream. On diet days, she eats more than she does usually, but she

counts her calories. More diverse eating. It is a science here.

603.

175
The man in the red vest and the red tie talks about a movie about Churchill.

604.

He talks about Stewie of Family Guy here.

605.

He seems to be either a director or a critic. British accent, moustache and the air of a butcher.

Maybe he even looks a tad like Churchill.

606.

Maybe he is the actor. Yup, he looks like that.

607.

The weather is reluctant, whatever that means. We have some 49180. The actor in the red vest.

This is how Joey of Friends would talk about his role. This is what I did as doctor ramorey or

demorey, this is how I act as Churchill. Actors do not care whom they impersonate, they just

make sure that they look the part. Dr. Drake Ramoray, that was the name. She looked it up here.

608.

Now a film about an exhibition in saint louis. St. Louis, Missouri here. The exhibitionmakers are

talking about how they arranged, how they curated the exhibition. An exhibit called World War

Two.

609.

It is about artwork made in the trenches. And after they came back to their studios.

610.

176
49280.

611.

Now an exhibit in nyc. South Seaport, a printshop. Founding company or something.

612.

800 printers near to Wall Street at some time. 1875. Or long time before. Old printers. Presses.

Letterpress printing.

613.

Bowne Printers, that is the name of the printer.

614.

Wgbh. Org.

615.

49328.

616.

Her numbering is off, she will eventually go back in and edit it.

617.

White chocolate and wasabi sauce here.

618.

She listens to this song a lot. It never rains in Southern California. She listens to a lotta songs

from some fifty years ago. This all started when there was a two-hour program on the telly the

177
night before. A fundraiser for PBS, public broadcasting something. It was a rerun of a taping of

Joan Baezs seventy-fifth birthday at the Beacon Theatre. All oldies, the songs and the

performers except for one person who was young. Well, others were too, but they had already

made a name for themselves. They used to be on VH1, when that was a thing.

619.

It is all about writing and non-writing. This basically meaningless sentence is prescribed in her

ears, she repeated it while driving home from the mall here. It is a Saturday, she was at YVR and

at the gym. She had a coffee that she got from the corner cafe in the market and that she balanced

to the food court where chairs were lined up, one behind the other. The mall was still awakening.

Outside of the gym there was a crow that flew too near to her head, she had to change her route

so not to anger that particular bird. They are usually very protective of their young and if you

walk too near to a tree with a nest thereon, then they might just attack yer. Their beaks will kill

here.

Somebody stuck a piece of paper into the mail slot, a flyer with a recipe for Neapolitan pizza on

one side, Taste of Sicily, and house listings on the other side. A one paged flyer, thin paper.

Napoli, Naples is not in Sicily. Who prints these flyers and why? Who walks around the

neighborhood on a sleepy Saturday morn at the start of June? Real estate prices are up, they

always do, shelter becomes more expensive, something like that. It is not like writing here, there

is an overabundance of good writing or maybe it is the same. Lots of wares and no takers. Not

enough takers. Supply and demand here. She could self-publish, people from Walt Whitman to

Mark Twain have done so. Gotta hustle your wares. Or be part of a good writing program here.

Anyhoo, typing, still typing this up here.

178
She did the dishes and took out the garbage. She weighed herself in the gym and watched the

dancers in the aerobics class here. The woman next to the reception did not wear make-up as she

usually does here. There were people in the airport who had matching off-red shirts, they were

part of a summer camp that goes around the airport. Or something like that, something of that

kind here. The day before she had a short flat white in the coffee house next to the new buildings

near Marine Station. So many many new buildings in the city. A bike rider went on the bike path

that is all new and that used to be a train track. She remembers all of these scenes that are not

interconnected, they flash into her memory, for moments for moments. Writing does not go like

that, you have one thread and you run with it. One plot and several subplots. Not too many and

not too little. It is all about the mix, all in the mix. The day before she watched an episode of

Mike and Molly, when he was talking about his Super Bowl recipe for guacamole. It was just

right but then he went overboard, added tomatoes and too much of them, added onions, spices,

and somehow it all dissipated into a concoction that nobody, nobody would touch. It had to be

thrown away. This was his analogy for Mollys writing, she overloads it with words and does not

know when to stop. The same was happening on the fourth floor of the south building in the art

school down on the island, one of her classmates, a young guy in black, he was doing a painting

and he would document the steps on his cell phone. It was a nice painting at first but then the

overabundance of black and white and yellow destroyed the poor thing. It was a vertical painting

that started out so good, but then it just became a black mess. A black rectangle basically. It

never ever went back to the fragile whimsy elegance it had in the beginning. All art is like that,

there is this one moment when it hovers and is in perfect balance and then it automatically tips

over, tips over here.

50109 words here.

179
620.

So we have the right word count for a nanowrimonovel here and it took some three months to do

this instead of the one month in November here. It is because in November you devote your life

to writing here.

621

It is ten forty in the eye on a rainyish overcasty third of June here. A phone call out of Oregon,

she lets it go to the machine here. She has to write this up, this up here. The masterpiece cannot

wait, the call is not for her anyways.

622.

She ponders, how did writers do their writings in the olden times, when there was no record

player, no tv. No music, no extraneous noise. When silence was dictating its songs to the writer

here, the writer here. She might walk thru downtown, it is a Saturday, there are people that you

can look at, faces, figures here. Visual everchanging entertainment, the city at its best and at its

worst here. Once upon a time there was a tavern, she listened to this song from eons of years

before, a song about places where the watering holes are called taverns.

And then the song about The House of the Rising Sun here.

623.

She has 180 pages. 50318 words. The sun is shining, it is a Saturday in June. She listened to

oldies music. The telly is on. And writing seems so tough, like a chore here.

624.

180
Her weight is at an all-time high. Well, ever since the loss of 2011. It yoyos up and it yoyos

down here. That is how it is how it is here. Has too much cheese in the fridge, all kinds of sorts

here. Not cookies though. There are cookies, the ones from Costco but they are downstairs

somewhere. She thinks too much on food, she writes too much on food here.

625.

Saturday evening in the city. It is not evening and it is not the city. But it sounds good, has the

right melody. She listens to all those songs, God bless Texas with his own Hands, He thinks hell

keep her, House of Cards. Catchy country tunes. Goes with summer and sun. June third, summer

has begun. She could drink punch, sangria, it is still pretty cold and chill in these parts of the

world here. She will keep on typing, her novel has to be written. She might stumble upon a plot,

a story, a narrative, tomorrow it will be Columbo nite, there is always a story, a clear murder

case and you know who did it from the very beginning. No second guessing, the story is

straightforward and the whistling of the nursery rhyme holds it all together here. On the telly, a

movie that is way too annoying, suspenseful music that is basically scary, a horror thriller. It is

thirty-one minutes after five, time to go for a walk, time to walk thru the neighborhood. Down to

the village, get a donut at the place that never closes here.

She went for a walk by the two persons who mow the lawn. Professionals, hired hands. One has

a leaf blower, the other has a mask on her face. Or his face. You cannot really distinguish it with

a short side glance. There is a woman who runs with her dog. Later on, she drives down to the

coffee place. It will be closing in half an hour. She just goes thru, does not order a drink.

Somehow the baristas seem too tired. And the extra coffee will bug her tummy here. She likes to

sit down but there are no interesting persons there. No thoughtful pensive souls. Instead there is a

group of persons all dressed up and all chatty. Outside, a bunch of teenagers that have no place to

181
go. Dont they have math homework? Physics? Why waste ur time at the local watering hole

next to the gas station? The sun is warm and shiny but it is still too cold. That is why she did cut

her walk short. She mixes the SHE, kind of confuses the reader with her faulty grammar. She has

50800 words, there are stories waiting to be written up, the protocol, the documenting of

moments. Writing is her life, whenever she is away from the typer she just wants to get back and

hurl up in front of the laptop, her world is small, it is always about words, all about words here.

In two days, the summer intensive will start up, the one that costs 2000 bucks and that she did

not register in. It is way too expensive, 2000 bucks for ten days here. 200 bucks per day. Who

forks over that amount of money for tuition? It is more a holiday in nyc, one where you pay

people to keep yer busy here. She thought that she might not have time to go there but she does.

People would teach her how to write, how to write better. Or worse. Whatever happened to doing

it, just do it. The world as a Nike commercial here.

50960.

She keeps on writing here. The warm summer day and writing a story. Writing up her life here.

She needs some more and then she can call it a day here. She can relax, have a glass of

sauvignon blanc. 51000. Yay ah yay here.

626.

She looks out of the window of the coffee house. Imagines other coffee houses. Other patrons.

Well, actually she just wonders what to write about once she is home. A white car parks, it has

no top. A sports car-wannabe, but it is too clunky. Too much metal, too robust. Make up your

mind, do you want to be a racing car or an SUV? You cannot have it both ways. The man who

sits in it looks like a mechanic. He, too, is too solid, too robust, too fat. This is what she thinks

182
about while staring out the window. The baristas are very thin. Author should be a barista, you

are on your feet all day thus you will lose weight. The woman next to the station who is waiting

for her drinks has a hunch back. Will that happen if author loses weight? Does one automatically

garner bad posture if one loses weight? One gets all wrinkled up she knows that for sure.

Reasons why not to lose weight. She tries to find them since she was five. When her wrist was

thicker than the ones of the cool girls in Gisela Grimms ballet school. And she was not

technically in ballet, more in pre-ballet. There is a hierarchy, people who just take gymnastics

and then there are the ballerinas. They wear different uniforms. The gymnastic people are there

because their pediatrician said so. For health reasons. To have a healthy posture. Author ponders,

now is this really the time to reflect on what happened some fifty years ago in a place so very far

away. Now she is a writer, a woman who types. A typist. A typist who will then waltz out into

the world and peddle her wares. Her words have to be very sterile, nothing personal. We do not

want to be a household name here. Author ponders, no worries, that will not happen. Her writing

is not like that. Nothing populist. There will not be games named quidditch that are inspired by

her writings. Her craft is a silent craft. No fans will turn up at her retreat in Upstate New York.

She is full of bullshit this June Fourth here. On the telly, something called the French Open. Men

with beards and white clothing. A ball that moves from side to side. Silence and sudden bursts of

clapping of hands. Tennis greats have to devote their childhoods to the craft of punching the ball

in the right angle here. Author dreamed about a ping pong ball. Nobody knows what is the

significance of that. Who would know here?

627.

There is this really cool show about Antarctica. She missed parts of it but she will be able to

watch it on you tube. Hopefully. Anthony Bourdain in Antarctica here. She watches parts of it,

183
does some cooking, does some wine drinking. A so very nice day in June here. The morn was

interesting, 5 hours of exploring Richmond here. A garden party in Oakridge. There is always so

much to see here. Not just the coffee house on Arbutus here. And it is Columbo day to boot.

What more can u ask 4? Simple pleasures are the best here.

628.

The film about Antarctica is great. Science is fascinating here.

629.

What is on the other side? Nobody knows. Nobody has come back to tell. Though Bourdain does

not say that.

630.

An ad for we know a thing or two cause we have seen a thing or two. Farmers Insurance or

something here. The man with bald head and glasses, long bald head.

631.

She drank too much for writing. Boozing is not conducive to writing. You cant be all drunk and

type up fancy words here, fancy stuff. Gotta be sober to merge the words correctly. The poet

should not be a mean drunk. This does not go with that. Art can only be made while

uninebriated. Trust me, trust us. The myth of the drunken writer is bogus, mere bullshit. Sorry,

vineries the world over, sorry, Amstel and Heineken.

632.

51684.

184
633.

One can have a very good time at the end of the world. Parteee, let,s get wasted. In Antarctica.

634.

Exploration.

635.

The film was good.

636.

Seven in the eve on June four of 2017.

637.

Eight twenty-four in the eve on a Sunday eve in June. Her wine was from Chile, next time she

will buy one from the Okanagan. Local wine. She still has one bottle of the red wine which was

not announced as imported wine which is kind of weird and shifty. She will not go back to that

store, it is one of those boutiquey stores and the ones that are BC liquor are better. More

regulated. And they are better price-wise too.

638.

She had too much food and this Columbo episode is kind of boring. The bad guy must be the

impresario who is played by this Scottish actor who used to play in Head of the Class after the

guy who used to play a stoned disc jockey on this show that portrayed a radio show with Loni

Anderson in it. We watch way way too much tv here.

639.

185
And they say that todays youth has its eyes on the screen all the time.

Theyve got nothing on us here, they are light weights. Pure lightweights here.

640.

It is seven eleven. What a funny time of the day to look at the numbers of the clock. She will

write about that once she had her coffee.

641.

Back from morning coffee. Nothing special in the coffee house except for all of these people

who seemed to just have taken their clothes out of the wrapping paper. The fabrics are brand new

and make author more self-conscious about her t-shirt that is washed many so many times here.

There is a difference in quality, in texture between brand-new fabric and fabric that has been thru

the wash cycle. Just like skin that is wrinkled and weathered here. She will write about that once

she is at the typer.

642.

A day of writing. This is how her Monday starts up. The obligatory five pages. On May, no June

fifth. The sun is shining. Nice weather but she has to be in her office. The office sans colleagues.

The office at the end of the world. In Antarctica. She rambles incoherently, nobody will get that

she is influenced by the Anthony Bourdain episode about Antarctica. The one she saw the

evening before. She had Chilean wine, mainly because it was not in the foreign wine section and

she bought it basically under false pretense. She thought it was a local brand. It was on sale and

that is how her shopping goes most of the time. Without the buyer beware thingie. Gimme what

is the cheapest ware in your establishment.

186
The day before, she read this article by a woman who writes for The New Yorker. She described

her workday, her workday as a writer. Her daily routine. What she eats, where she runs. How her

desk looks like. The things that she does not do, basically saying that this is what other writers

do. It was interesting just like pictures of artists in their studios. The narrative of the make.

Content maker or something. Which is interesting but mainly if the writer, the artist is famous.

Fame, notoriety is one part of the equation, maybe the main part here. Who knows here, who

knows here. And the wordcount stands at five and two and two six and seven here. 52267.

643.

One page already. Time to have a drinkypoo.

644.

Looking at a recipe for this farro salad. Brussel sprouts beet, kale, walnuts. She has to go out to

get kale, she has baby arugula at home. Cooked rice instead of farro. She is into eating healthy

mainly to lose weight. To be thinner, new version of herself here. It is an always struggle, the

fight against the weight. A lifelong obsession here. Something to write on, something that

everybody can relate to. Or not. There are people on this planet who are unaware of how many

calories there are in an egg. They are usually thin and happily oblivious to the science of weight.

The specifics here. They look in the mirror and go thru life with a 31inch waist. They are usually

guys here.

So this is what you write about, write on. Everyday stuff. Hmm, nobody will publish that,

nobody will.

She imagines a meeting in a coffee shop off-Broadway. She and an agent. Or something like

that. Her head is spinning, at the beginning of the work week. The work week of a writer here.

187
There will be some editing done and some writing done here. Maybe shell stumble upon a plot.

Maybe she will cut out some passages, though she is not the kind of author who can let go. She

hangs on to every word she ever produced. Once it is typed up it has to stay. It is in the world

here. It can be stored on google drive infinitely here.

She has those two pages on Monday five.

52539 words here. Time to mix with the living here.

645.

There are coffee houses and then there are coffee houses. She came up with this poetic sentence

while walking in the morning. It could be the title of a book. It does not have much meaning. Ah,

who cares here.

646.

On the telly, Two and a Half Men. Five forty-nine in the afternoon. Outside, the sun is shining

here. Writing ah typing here. The nonstory or something here.

647.

52619.

648.

She could walk around the neighborhood once more. It is afternoon, it is sunny. People-watching

and there are a lotta people at this time of the day. Interactions. Nothing special though. Nothing

that interesting, nothing to write about. Nothing to tell the folks back home. Regular lives here.

She could turn on the news. Something bout Trump, that is what it will be about. People talking

188
about how incompetent he is. A bad politician. Basically implying that his predecessors were

better. Well, whatev here.

649.

She had one too many cookies here. Lace, that is how they are called. From Costco. And a big

big bag of tortilla chips here. With cheddar. All these Costco portions are for households with 12

people. And then you eat them all by yourself. Supersizing, huh. She has to walk it all off, there

has to be serious weight watching. There is actually a weight watching place on Broadway, what

do they do, how can you watch weight?

So these are her themes now. Costco portions and Weight Watchers. The sun shining. The

description of utter boredom. She did not participate in this writing residency in New York City.

Today was the first day, by now they were having drinks and getting to know each other here.

The sample curriculum is online, so it is basically as if one participates in this. Without paying

the surreal tuition here. But it is still not the same here.

She is bored, all writers must be bored. There is nothing to do but type here. One falls asleep

while doing this.

52885, counting each and every word. It is like a marathon, a never-ending one. One of those

marathons where you run one on each continent. For no clear reason, one runs and runs. To have

ones name in a record book here. Fame fortune the feeling of achievement. The knowledge that

you did it. You traversed the route above Niagara Falls, you shot for the moon. You discovered

the North Pole, you scaled Mount Everest. Extraordinary feats, as boring as a walk thru the mall

here.

189
Thirty more words and then we have enuf 4 the day here. 52982. Still some typing here and still

some typing here. It is six and four on June fifth here. 53001.

650.

So this is what you do. You write about people having coffee? I write about people having

coffee.

A conversation about her line of work, one that cuts to the chase, one that puts it clearly. What

do you do for a living? I write about people having coffee? Does it pay? Not as much as you

would think, not as little as you would think. I am getting by, I am doing alright.

The description of people having coffee. A lot of coffee here.

651.

Back from the excursion to the place where they make coffee. where they have coffee. The usual

faces, the man and the woman behind the counter. The one whose name is Cat which must be

short for something. The very well-dreassed woman, she is there every morning. Off to her job

as a CEO. Today it is a dress, something that looks like the old Pucci dresses, but more blue

black and yellow here. There is a man with a manbun who leaves his bike outside without

securing it, he seems to feel that this is not the crowd that would steal a bike. They might not

even know how to ride a bike, they are not athletic enough. There are two women who work in

the gas station, one of them talks extensively with the barista. They have a lot in common with

the baristas, they serve gas, the baristas serve coffee. There are no dogs at this time of the day, it

is around seven, the recreational group will come later. These are the persons who have coffee on

their way to work. There is not that much to see, wait, a husband and a wife with a baby. Their

grandkid, the woman is very inept at pushing a stroller over the bump. Has been a long time,

190
thirty, forty years. They both look still young, baby boomer teenagers. The ones that will go to

concerts and light a candle here.

The writing day is in front of her here. The typing of words that nobody will read. That have to

be hustled out there, that have to be aggressively marketed. Words on coffee shops. There are

people who never drink coffee. Tom Brady never had a cup of coffee. and he is married to

Gisele. What does this tell you? There are tea drinkers, coffee drinking is a new phenomenon.

Why does one not call it pub, public house? A public house where coffee is served, to people

from all walks of life. People who do not do their coffee drinking at home, people who go out to

drink coffee. social drinkers of coffee. there are coffee machines. Coffee makers, Nespressos.

Those ones with a Keurig droppy thingie. You are supposed to have your offee at the kitchen

table. Inside a building. In the privacy of your own home.

She will think about that, write about that. What are the implications of a coffee house out of

Seattle? What political climate makes coffee houses possible?

And who are the people who write on coffee houses? Theater folk that did not make it. Visual

artists that are not in the Tate. Losers who did not cut it. Yup, those are the people who write on

coffee houses. She has half of her daily allotments of words, she ballparks it. Hums to herself in

this darkened room, where only the light of the monitor counts and shows her the way. She can

send this out to people in offices in New York City and London town, people who get

commissions by publishing houses. People who will sell her words or hustle her words. Her

words about coffee houses.

191
She feels weird, this is a weird profession. If she wrote nonfiction, her words would be sellable.

more sellable. Poetry on the other hand is even worse than her brand of fiction. So it is so it is

here.

Page 189 to page 191. Her two pages are over. She is like the construction worker who has laid a

certain amount of bricks. She can now go to that Chinese supermarket next to Marine Station

where they sell food in boxes at five fifty a piece. It is more like a buffet and it is way too soon

for that place here. There is a Whole Foods too next to city hall, they too have buffet style food.

But it is still eight in the morn, you have to wait this out till at least eleven. You just had

breakfast, coffee, banana bread, now you have to wait, two pages, that is written so fast, her

work for the whole day takes up a mere half hour of her life. Half an hour out of her day, what

does a writer do with the rest of her day? Research. Yeah, whatever. She watched a lot of Head

of the Class episodes the day before. They are all good, all nostalgic. WKRP in Cincinnati,

watched that too. Ah, to be thirty years younger than this, here. When she was no writer here.

Those were better days, they always are, those days in retrospective. When we were younger and

healthier. Mainly healthier. Thinner. Though maybe not, she remembers her weight just

wobbling up and wobbling down here.

Nothing but bullshit on this fine morning. This one writer for The New Yorker talked about

muses not the muse. Apparently, author is inspired by more than one muse here.

53656. The problem with this software is that one can magnify the font but not the number that

shows the wordcount. That one is so very tiny, you need a magnifying glass to make out that

number here. Her sight is getting worse by the day here. It is not getting better, I tell yer.

192
With writing in Word one tends to make the mistake of inserting passages in wrong places.

Which is what she just did here. But she lets it stand, so it is a collage of parts that are non-

chronological. You can do that when you are just reflecting on stuff here. It somehow works

here. Later we can edit this, see the glitches. She usually prints it out and binds it and reads her

words, her texts in different parts of the city. Asks shopkeepers for pens to correct her words. It

kind of keeps the whole process interesting, organic. There is motion involved in creating

something static. And it shows, hopefully, that is, here.

54081.

652.

It is eight ten. Others who work in retail are still getting ready for work. She on the other hand

has done her daily chore. If she was a painter, she would have flapped the paint on the canvas

already. She could sleep in a corner and watch the paint dry. Sit in a corner. Writing is like that

too. You just let the words ferment. She is like the person who ferments grapes. In a winery. A

vineyard. She feels like boozing, she always does. Ever since that trip to Turin where they all

drank all the time. It was cold and one had to be inside, what with the baby and all. The baby

made us into drunks. She was never ever really sober in Italy, she had read somewhere that they

always drink in Italy. There is wine at every meal. Barolo, that was the name of the wine of the

region. If you want to buy this here, in the local store, it is eighty bucks per bottle here. Versus

the ten bucks for cheap wine from the Okanagan. It is all about transportation costs, import

export. So it seems so it seems. She veered off from talking about coffee to talking about wine.

That is what we write about here, nothing consequential here. Stream of conscience, whatev.

Next thing, you know, you too will write about cofefe. Cofeve. the talk of the day in trumpland

here.

193
377. 577. (653edit)

Later on she has to write the numbers here.

654.

Top of page 193.

655.

All of these numbers ah all of these numbers here.

656.

She will write about Santa Monica. That is where writers are built. Not in residencies in New

York City. Not in those 2000 dollar per unit plate places. Where u listen in to the urban planner

of Newark who is promoted as a typical guest for the Design Writing Summer Residency

Intensive as per their website. If you write about urban design, then just go ahead, do it. Learn by

doing here.

Her subject matter is not journalistic like that, she does not write in a journalistic way. That

program is more geared towards non-fiction writers who describe the built world, the manmade

phenomena. Shoes, clothes, an avocado sandwich here. Food bloggers, fashion writers. That is

not what author here does. She describes the humans that huddle beneath those big man-made

structures, hobos under bridges, homeless in alley ways. Well, that is not true either, she is more

the kind who describes people on the bus. On a moving man-made structure. People in transit.

Something like that. People in coffee houses. People in copy places. She was in two copy places

already, in Staples and in the FedEx Kinkos place here. She was in two conferences, one was for

something called wi-Fi and it seemed to be very male dominated. Eighteen people in one room

194
and they were all men. Next to her waiting for the bus was a man who looked as if he should be

on the cover of GQ. He was extremely good looking and had this Italian aura about him. He had

a bag that said conference or no international congress of Parkinsons disease and movement

disorders. Maybe motion disorders. There was a wife too, with sun glasses. They both took the

bus to the island where the art skool used to be. Or still is.

Anyhoo, back to Santa Monica. Btw, there was a crow or a raven or a peacock in the bushes near

to her house. Two women were talking about it. One of them smoked, apparently the one in yoga

pants here. The taller one, the extrovert.

On the bus there was a man who was way too fat. There was another man who looked like an

exchange student from Spain or Mexico. He talked on the phone, yup, he had some kind of

latinish accent Brazil, Italy, Spain. Something iof the romance languages. He has some crest on

his shirt and something written under it. An all -catholic school, university maybe. Something

that had to do with the pope. There was a woman on the bus who ordered people around. She

said thank you sir to author here. Ok, nice. Males dont want to be females and females do not

want to be males. It is an insult, dammit.

The bus driver was the same on the way downtown and the way back. A young guy, about to

become stocky. East-Indian, he talked a lot with this too big woman and they talked about the

work world and disability benefits etcetera. When you work for institutions. What they will do to

you, how they will reimburse you. In the hotel there was a man who talked into his cell phone,

all about equity and stuff like that. Financial lingo. He did not look like a banking guy though.

He was dressed down.

195
The restaurant in the hotel seems to be a nice place for dinner. One can have good dinner there, it

is very business-like. Nobody will bother yer there.

This other hotel is too personalized, no conferences are done there. Apparently, all film crews

stay there. Author here once saw the Olsen twins in the pool there, in the jacuzzi. They were still

kids and there was a woman with them who gave author here dirt looks. Yup, film people seem

to congregate to that hotel. It changed its name so many many times here.

Author was at the gym too. She weighs way too much. She has to take down 30 pounds over the

summer.

And now she will start her ode to Santa Monica. That is where all the writers live. The ones that

write stuff that will then end up on the small screen. They are always drunk, at least that is what

Sheryl Crow posits. It really was like that when author was there in February. It was full of

drunken hobos, stock drunk at ten in the morn. One of them talked to her, very friendly. Those

drunks are like that, the ones that are drunk first thing in the morn. They can hardly walk, they

stagger like Tiger in Florida.

They sleep on the Santa Monica Pier or under the Santa Monica Pier. They are not the actors that

do not make it. Nope, they are just folks who live there.

Santa Monica is by far the most drunk city in California, no contest whatsoever. Google it,

Wikipedia it.

Dont tell people how you found me, early morning rain, she is listening to all of these songs.

She watches stuff like Head of the Class and WKRP, it is all about how you wanna make it but

you do not succeed. All of these songs and all of these stories are written by ppl who live in

196
Santa Monica. Yup, that is how it is how it is here. Movie stars, Malibu, Two and a Half Men.

Hollywood is all about stuff like that, Breakfast at Tiffany-ish stuff.

But she will make it, she writes each and every day. There is something called the human spirit

and it will and has to, must succeed. Art, science, technology, it does not make any difference.

The construct of something that was not there beforehand here.

All writers live in Brooklyn so they say. And then there are the ones who do not live there. A

writer who does not live in brklyn. Maybe even in Santa Monica.

On Kelly and Ryan, in the morn there was a person who had a t-shirt that said writer. On the bus

there was a man who sported a t-shirt that said got Volkswagen. People write who they are on t-

shirts. And then there is the no logo group here, they are usually Canadian.

Yup, insites, insights. Time to get drunk on red wine from Chile. Cheap cheap cheap and cheap

win here.

Btw, she printed out 40 pages and put them into a roll and brought them back home. It looks like

a blueprint roll here, one can hold it under the arm here. It is printed in the wrong font size.

Whatev, ah, whatev here.

657.

She has rice and tomato sauce 4 lunch. The tomato sauce that has vodka in it and that is

overpriced here. In half an hour they will show Friends on the telly.

658.

She has 196 pages, soon thiw s will be s00. Sorry, 200.

659.

197
She looks at all the pics she took in Santa Monica. Lots of them are deleted, she had to delete

them in order to make space for storage here on her phone. But she backed all of them up and

even the scarce ones that are still hovering on her phone spell out the picture. Yup, they paint the

picture of Santa Monica in black and white. Well, actually in color, but somehow it sounds more

dramatic if she says in black and white. It suggests words written in black ink on white paper.

Maybe that is why black and white images are so powerful. In the apple store the little movie

that plays on each computer is a black and white movie, in a very urban scene. It has this

underlying narrative of grittiness, urbanity and New York. Well, definitely city life, the ghetto,

something like that. Harlem. The main player is a black young male, very athletic with a baseball

cap backwards. He must be a dancer or a gymnast but there is nothing feminine about him. You

just can deduce that from his athleticism, his salto mortale like endeavors. There is a skateboard

too, though skateboards are so yesteryear. Nowadays cool dudes knit, like the Chinese kid in the

bakery in Chelsea some eight years go. His knitting was so elaborate.

Anyhoo, she writes, even though nobody thinks of her as a writer. She has ethanol in her veins,

yup, she had red wine already, it is three forty -five in the afternoon while the sun is shining

outside. On a Tuesday in June, early June. She will will her masterpiece onto the page while the

telly is singing here. Two Broke Girls or whatever. The alcohol furthers her words here. She had

tortilla chips with the tomato sauce that is super expensive and has vodka in it. The gourmet

sauce here that she got from the store where everything is overpriced. Twelve bucks for a pint of

ice-cream. It is a small store that caters to the neighborhood, but it is basically Dean and DeLuca

on a small scale, in a small space. You know that everything there is extra expensive. That is

their niche, gourmet stuff. A chocolate bar that costs six bucks while it tastes worse than a

snickers bar. It is one of those chocolate bars that are only churned out in small batches, where

198
there is some hints of Turkish honey in the bar. Where there is not the quality control that

Hersheys or Cadbury can provide here. Author is having this Chilean wine which has definitely

problems. One can see it from the packaging they use, the label is not professionally put on the

bottle. Which means that there is no quality control for the interior of the bottle either. But does

wine really need quality control? Well, maybe it does, because they do not use a cork they use a

bottle stopper that one screws on. How can they do that in a perfect way if they cannot even put

the paper onto the bottle in a concise way? The wine tastes a tad like vinegar and it might make

her blind. But who wants to let a perfectly nice bottle of wine go and rot? She will take her

chances. She googled the importer, they did not leave any traces online. Well, so something is

fishy here. The same happens with all of those lil craft breweries, they are all non-quality

controlled. Marijuana joints too. In Colorado here. Author is not quite sure if she id driving home

her intent, after all she is a tad drunk here. So, one more try, there are craft breweries in Oregon,

and in British Columbia, there are hydroponic growers in Colorado and Montana and in BC.

They are not that controlled and they are run by stoners. Make of that what u want here. U will

die if you eat all those tortilla chips from Costco in the 2 kilogram bag and the cheddar in the one

kilo package and the lace cookies with macadamia that are sold in portions that can feed a whole

city, or at least a whole village. The big portions that are used to clog all of the arteries of people

in these parts of the world so that they can use up the medical services provided by doctors and

by Big Pharma here. There is a reason why this is, there is collusion between car companies and

Big Pharma and Price Club and whatever. And then there are the writers who sit in Santa Monica

under the Pier and make up stories about people in New York. It is all a big thingie, they are out

to get yer. The Unabomber had it all right. Or to put it differently, yeah, lifes a bitch and then u

die, which was what one of the soccer moms or baseball moms said laughingly, actually yelled

199
laughingly from the sidelines. We are all in this together here. She read this article about the safe

thingie in fb, you know the one where you mark yourself as safe on facebook after the London

attacks. Some guy who is actually a psychoanalyst wrote an article in this paper in the UK which

is called The Independent and is a tad like the guardian but more conservative. So a tad to the left

but not that much here. Author here liked the article but then she wanted to delete her liking and

could not do it for the life of her. Social media has yer, they count u in and the best strategy is to

just not use any. And not to like stuff. Who cares what u like, u r just one number in 23K. Who

wants to be one of 23K? What is a K anyways? Well, it is short for kilo denoting one thousand.

But she liked this sentence in King of Queens where she says that she is not even quite sure what

a K is.

And now it is Sheldon on here spouting off.

She is wasted but not enough. Not enough to call people up and tell them off. tell them what she

really thinks. She still is well-behaved, if you are wasted you have to make sure to not pass out.

She has Nutella but makes sure not to finish the jar that has one kilogram in it. She knows when

to stop, though technically nobody knows when to stop. Everybody is supersizing on this side of

the pond here.

660.

56596.

661.

Amy and Sheldon here.

662.

200
Amy is really funny, and to think that she was Blossom.

663.

She holds a PhD but went back to impersonating another creature. Which is what acting is. It is

actually quite tricky you have to memorize stuff. Author here knows that this is not her cuppa

tea, she could never ever remember a line when she was part of this theater group in the local

community center. For the life of it, this is not what ia ma a le to do. Something made her forget

this one bloody line, each and every time. It was quite the embarrassment. Who would have

thought that we are that dumb here.

664.

And usually people think of movie stars as dumboheads, well, let me let you in on this one

secret, they are supersmart. They remember their lines. Which is quite a fear in authors eyes

here. Something in her brain stops the memorizing of lines, bigtime. She can converse in five

languages, pretty coherently, but she cannot remember a line in a play. Something just makes her

brain stand still, go cold. You would not notice that she is this dumb, but trust me, she is. It is

just like George Costanza who states that people always think that I am smarter than I am. The

same goes for author here. It must be the German accent, it makes her sound as if she is Albert

Einstein here. Yup, it usually works you can go by on that accent. People will think you are

smart even though u r xtremely dumb here. Whatever works 4 yer here.

665.

On the telly, Friends. The wine is wearing off, way off. the Chilean red wine, cabernet

sauvignon. She had Nutella and rice with tomato sauce with vodka in it, the gourmet kind, raq

something. She watched Head of the Class, all the episodes on you tube. She is kind of getting

201
addicted to it. Lots and lots of Head of the Class. It seems to be a show from a simpler time.

Simpler times. Simpler times seem to be better times. Retrospective is nice. Or something like

that here. It is after ten, there is a myriad of sitcoms on. Choices, ah, choices. She watched

Stephen Colbert and it was hilarious. Jimmy Kimmel, good, too. Travis something and an

interview with a guy who took pics of James Baldwin here. And now Janice and her laugh on

Friends here.

666.

56983.

667.

Joey and his reciting stuff about pics that he learned, memorized from index cards. Funny, huh

here.

668.

Ten and seventeen in the evening on June 6, 2017 here. She had a lot of food, nacho chips and

cheese here.

669.

57026 here.

Four-oh-wunk. Funny huh.

670.

Nine and fourteen in the ey am. On June 17 in 2007. Make that June seven here. The weather is

nice a tad too nice. Too hot. It is twelve degrees in New York City. The chilly east coast and the

202
hot west coast. As it should be, though not in summer here. She wanted to go out to the airport in

order to come back and write about airports. How they are transitory places or something like

that. How they make people write songs, write poems, books, make movies that are two hours

long and attract the attention of curious onlookers. Just sitting around an airport is exciting or

something. She just made it to the mall and it did not help that the woman near the self-checkout

told another woman about her two lumps. We will all die, why write here?

She is back at the typer and she does not really have anything to say. Author that is, not the

cashier woman here.

671.

One day she will stumble upon a plot but that day is not today here. She has domestic chores,

dishes, stuff to put into the freezer. The house has to be well ordered, well maintained. She will

have red wine in the evening, the rest of the Chilean vino before it turns to vinegar. Though it

tastes vinegary already, that is why it was cheapo in the liquor place on West Boulevard. The

man behind the counter asked her if she has a discount card. She must have that aura of a whino

here.

672.

There is nothing to write about, all she did the day before is watching endless reruns of Head of

the Class on utube. That makes yer not into an amazing writer here.

673.

And having half a jar of Nutella, the large kind, does not help here.

674.

203
It is nine forty-three am. Sun shining, parts of the dishes are done here. The dishwasher does not

work, still, there is something soothing to do it by hand. You splash around and you have a tinge

of accomplishment. Makes yer feel happy. Dishwasher, an underrated profession. Meditative,

just like surgery. You eliminate rubbish off the backs of porcelain containers, flat ones, round

ones. You can even spray them if you turn the knob on the spout. This is what we should write

about here, dishwashing. It will sell millions., people will clamor to get her autograph. Please

sign a copy here. She will wear glasses made in Malaysia. If you are a Seinfeld buff, then and

only then will u get da last sentence. Ok, it is official, we are out of things to write on here.

675.

Binge-watching all day long here. There is a world outside of these four walls here. But she feels

that she has to stay here in order to write her great great master piece. She cannot really leave

this place. It is all about pushing down lil squares until you keel over and dissipate. You have to

be here until the bitter bitter end. It is about putting in twelve hour days, fourteen hour days.

Then you can come up, for moments, catch some air and then it is back into the deep end looking

for fame, for fortune. Constructing the next best thing, a story a nonstory in a language foreign

from the language she started out here. There are so many obstacles, there is the notion that

publishing is dead and nobody holds a book anymore in her hand except for the way too old lady

in the corner of the bus that hobbles up Arbutus from downtown. Writing, writing all day long.

Without getting out and walking thru the real world. Without hovering around downtown and

waiting for the bus that picks up strangers in front of the Irish place on Granville here, the one

that has leprechauns outside on the window, green four leaved plants that she does not know the

name of in English and has to look it up, cloverleaf, nah.

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Her writing ah her writing. She is loathing it, that happens if u stay too long in one place here.

Well, the book marches forward and maybe that is all we need here. Dispatches from the

frontlines of a writers existence, something like that ah something of that kind here.

676.

One day she will stumble upon a story but that day is not today. At this part she just describes

stagnation, well, relative stagnation. Seinfeld is about to start, Modern Family and the woman

with the hard accent, Sofia something. Vergara maybe. The news is all about Comey and Trump,

stuff like that stuff like that here.

677.

She mixes arugula and yogurt and uses it as a dip for nacho chips. It is very good. She cuts the

baby arugula with scissors, she got that trick online from a person in Finland who puts the

arugula in a cup and then cuts it. Author has no clue how that really works, but she uses scissors

and that works just fine here.

678.

57878

Describing people who sit in a coffeehouse, that is what I do for a living. Oh, is there a market

for that? Not yet.

She imagines conversations about the life of a writer, her life of a writer. And it is mainly this

particular coffee house whereas she used to describe different coffee houses. This one coffee

house is a stand-in, one generic watering hole. Where people of all kinds of life all ways of life

respite for moments. The coffee house on the way. It is seven in the morn on a Friday in June.

205
The day is awakening or some other poetic description might fit. The man in the white shirt and

the white pickup truck. There is not that much to describe except that there are lines on his shirt.

The coloring of the shirt, off-white. And not technically a shirt, more a hoodie. Something made

out of fleece. With long sleeves. The woman though is very distinct. Long long hair, neatly

combed. Platform shoes. A tattoo that is basically a nontattoo. Lines. Green lines on her right

forearm. Thicker lines.

The music is very simple, repetitive. Lalala or tatatata. More lala. The day is dreary, not really

June as of yet. The June that does not really happen. The promise of June, yup, that is more like

it. She ponders how she can print out image and text in one piece. How can she save that in a

file? And then just print it out here. She usually either prints out images or text. Not a

combination. There are ways there always are.

She has 48000 words and then some. On a rainy day in June here.

Four more words and voila: 48000.

Seinfeld and Elaine, the apartment.

679.

Eight thirty two in the eve. Outside. Impending darkness. On the telly, Seinfeld here. The

episode with the mickey.

Costanza yelling at his boss. I quit.

680.

Kramer and Seinfeld here. This is what she writes about here. Seinfeld here. A plot as good as

any here. Writing about a show about nothing here.

206
681.

She has some 208 pages here. There are mistakes, glitches. But nonetheless she produced that

many pages this year. Even if this does not get published she knows that she wrote this up. Its

the journey that counts. Say the people who do not get to the finish line here. The journey is what

counts. What a bunch of baloney.

682.

Today the coffee house seems nameless, faceless. Could be the rain that is coming down, could

be that the persons in this place do not know each other. There is no community, come half an

hour later and everybody knows each other. Those people live for hanging out together as a rudel

at a certain time of the day, they are part of a group that comes here. Gathers here at a certain

time of the day, has coffee together, knows each others names, the group in the coffee house.

And there are coffee house groups like that all over town, they have a very special, very strong

bond over years and years of their lives. Strangers that come together just as the individuals in

classrooms and dorm rooms are part of a group here. Colleagues.

683.

The rain is way too much, it is June eight in 2017, it is eight oh five here. Five minutes after

eight in the morn. She could wait and go back to the coffee house, see, if what she posited about

the place holds true. Do her research so that what she writes is true. Not fiction. But she has been

at the coffee house at different times, she knows what kind of crowd hangs out there at what

times.

Later in the day, she will go down to the airport. Airports are more interesting anyways for a

writer, there is more to describe than in a coffee house here. Hang out where people fly in out of

207
Amsterdam. They are all jetlagged, they all speak Dutch. They come from miles and miles away,

fresh out of differing time zones. Times zones different from this old time zone here. They have

interesting lives, they come from places where life is so much more interesting than here. Where

the food is different, tastes different. Where the faces are different, strange, where people speak

languages others than the ones that she knows here.

684.

On the laptop she can hear the sound of the episode of Head of the Class, mainly because

somehow the Microsoft Word and the YouTube channel merged here. Which does not happen

that often here, it just happened by accident. It is th episode where Simone is the editor of the

school paper here.

685.

It is quite an interesting episode, it is all about how the inner workings of a magazine, well, work

here.

686.

We have some 53 000 words, nope, 59000. Not long until this stands at 60 000. This is what she

did with her life, she erected words. She could have built a skyscraper in the middle of town,

painted the Mona Lisa, do some other stuff. She writes, and the reason for her being a writer is

basically that she is a visual artist who could not cut it. That is why she strings words together

here.

687.

Someone once said that writing is rewriting. She just quotes a line from Head of the Class here.

208
688.

We have the obligatory two pages. We can now go out and join the living here. The hustle and

bustle of the morning commute crowd, the sardine-like existence that is there till it kind of gets

better at around nine when most offices start their nine-to-five routines here.

689.

Eight and nineteen.

690.

Writing while the story of that particular episode unfolds here.

691.

Simone talks about Maxwell Perkins and Hemingway here. He was the writer and the other was

the editor here.

692.

Sitting in the airport, that will be fun. She sure has to get ready.

693.

Nine forty-two in the nite. Though it is still kind of bright outside. This must be one of the

longest days of the year. You can google it. On the telly, all about James Comey and what he

said at the investigation. He sure called the prez a liar. All the women are wearing red on the

panel here.

694.

Not much left to drive this up to 60000 words here.

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695.

She had fish and chips today at the airport which definitely messed up her inner clock. Too much

food here, a flat white and one of those Dutch waffles, the light kind. The one in the beige

packaging. One of those Chinese hot dog buns. Later half a Boston Cream Pie donut. Fish and

chips and tartar sauce. Wow, and then Nutella. She feels like dying here which btw, you should

do if you eat this much on any one day. And we started the day with a coffee and banana bread.

Way too much food ah way too much food here. Her life has to be much more regimented,

writing, some walking and then some more writing. You cannot suddenly go off your rocker

even if what you do is writing. There has to be a clear discipline in order to find the right words

here. Even if you are a poet you have to lead a clear ascetic life, eat at certain times and eat

certain amounts. Your body is a temple, so they say here.

696.

59715.

697.

Ten oh eight in the evening here. Still CNN, Anderson Cooper asking a person about Jim

Comey. Whom will you believe? Seems he is of the same opinion as everybody else, James

Comey speaks the truth. Lets face it, the guy exudes that kind of aura, you know that he speaks

the truth. Trump just cannot for the life of him compete with that here.

698.

59783.

699.

210
A string of scenes, first thing in the morning. June nine, from nine to nine thirty. The schmaltzy

guy is wearing a light grey blue jacket which makes him look less offensive, the young barista is

taking five. The woman behind the counter is wearing a smidge of lipstick which makes her look

more polished. The main barista still has his hear in an upsweep and has his smile, the one he

always wears. The coffee house is so full of people, mothers and their babies come in at the end

of the half hour here. There is a sports car outside, in shiny black and in too bigness, sleek short

sportscars are so yesterday. A sportscar for the burbs, with a bald owner with a shiny head here

and a tight shirt made out of a rayon cotton blend in anthracite.

The day is not sunny and not non-sunny, it is a Friday before the weekend starts up in full swing.

There is a car outside that says frank and sons, all painting and plumbingbizes are just like the

Trump dynasty. You go into business with ur own kids here. Somehow this is un-American, you

are supposed to get somewhere on ur own merits. You start school without your mommy behind

yer, you are there all alone in the room and either cut it or you dont.

Anyhoo, she woke up dreaming about writing here. Describing something visual, something she

saw. A painting on a stand.

The day is good for a writer, not too shiny and not too lightless. But we said that already, you

cannot repeat yourself for 500 pages. Then your book is deemed unpublishable, there are no

trolls and no witches, no knights, no super real mumbo jumbo here. She will type up words fast

and then it is into the real world. Back into the real world. The mall, the train, downtown here.

All of these places where people congregate. Where they dont look at each other, where they

stare stoically in front of themselves. The day before there was this man who poked the tip of his

umbrella into his right shoe, constantly. It is as if his whole body was an umbrella stand, he did

that all the way from Oakridge to Waterfront, or from Marin to Broadway City Hall. There was a

211
woman who did something out of the ordinary too, but author here does not remember it. All the

tics of seemingly normal persons, the sea of humanity is there to be watched. Autor here hardly

combs her hair, nobody should write about her, she observes and is not the object of observation.

Not the subject of somebodys written piece. Nobody will make money writing about her. She

will stay a fly on the wall, a boozehound who wakes up pining for a drink here. After the

obligatory pages, after them, yup, after them here.

700.

She could go back to the airport, have another fish and chips here, this time a fish taco maybe, a

shrimp taco.

Or she can have another one of those hotdogs in batter, the ones that they sell in the t and t

market here.

She thinks too much about food and it shows it shows here. This is not writing, it is a mere

documentation of her days on this planet here. The two pages come to an end, slowly and

steadily here.

701.

Two hundred and fifty pages, 60397 words, it is June nine in 2017, it is ten and two minutes

here. Time to join the living here. The opportunities are endless, so many choices in equally

boringish things to do here and places to go and they all look equally alike here.

702.

Nine twelve in the evening here. On the telly, the guy who was one of the two presidents men.

Not Woodward, the other one here.

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703.

60417 words here. No story as of yet. Still light outside here.

704.

The description of moment after moment, this is what she has to do on this early morning of a

lowly, lonely September in June. Wow, that sentence has no meaning whatsoever, it cannot be

September in June, it is either September or June. If you want to wax poetically and you are

fascinated by the syllables of a word, you still cannot arrange it at random. There has to be

coherence, inner logic. Even as a visual artist there has to be logic, you can just get away to a

certain point and call it experimental, after a while it does not work anymore, it is just plain

crazy. The aesthetics might be fascinating, but it all has to make sense somehow here. She tries

to remember the moments, the white sportscar, the man with the red shoes, the barista who is

bored and who has outlived the honeymoon period with his job here. Just a month ago he was all

fresh-faced, all exited, now he is lethargic and jaded, sarcasm is imprinted on his face, he is

about to spit in your cuppa joe or he might have pre-spat the cup beforehand here.

The woman on the side laughs at what she sees on her phone, this is how we all have our

personal moments on a dreary day in June here.

Her generic descriptions of the generic coffee house, this has to be the stand-in for drama, for

storyline. There is no storyline, there are only strangers getting coffee, making coffee. putting

cream in at the coffee station in front of the windows that look out at the street and where you

can see the cars and the trucks moving up and moving down the asphalt street in this city here.

The city that is insignificant, that has nothing to say to her. That is ah so bla, but she said that

already here. You cannot describe cities like that, you have to laude them, you cannot get into

213
trouble with city hall. Melodrama has to wait here. Bohemian descripts. Songs en bleu. Singing

the blues, can you even translate that into the French language here. You can just sing the blues

in America, maybe in New Orleans. The language and all its nooks and crannies here. Regional

flavors, regional differences here. She does not care, she needs some two pages and then this is

done, done for the day. Two obligatory pages, editing can wait and will wait here. She might

wander downtown, look at nameless faces, let strangers wash all over her. The stream of people

beneath the skyscrapers, that is what makes you into a writer, even if you have never been

trained to do so. New York dictates its songs and even if this is non-Gotham, it does not even

matter. A city is a city is a city, the stories are all the same here all the same here. Flip thru

Instagram, all of the half a billion users see the world the same way, thru the same eyes here.

The description of the urban existence, yup, we can do that, can provide that. Throw the words at

reality, some of them will stick and make sense here.

She could go out for a run, a fast walk, but first there have to be those two pages those very two

pages that make or break her day here. One day, some day she will stumble upon a plot, but until

then it is all about the writer herself here, s selfie in words, the commemoration of the person that

searches for moments, for scenes here. The observer who forgets what she saw the minute it

happened, there are always new moments to document, moments that are superimposed on the

moments that came before. Everchanging realities, ever changing perspectives here. How can

you even make sense of all this, the confusion is paramount, it is the only thing that stays the

same here. It is a day in June and the words are klimpering into the computer. The wordcount is

standing still at 61114 here.

705.

214
A whole day of editing here. It is four and thirty-three, wait, make that four and thirty-three in

the afternoon on a sunny Saturday in early June, maybe more leaning towards mid-June here.

She printed this out in downtown but it all got misprinted and she had to throw out the pieces of

paper which was not a good idea, you can recycle them here. She printed out ten pages and went

to the coffee house and had a short flat white and read thru those ten pages. She then came home

and fixed the numbering which was off but that caused more problems because she writes, she

comments on the numbering being off but if you correct the numbering then the comments that

are self-reflective do not hold true anymore, they do not make sense. The context is lost. It is like

naming the protagonist George and suddenly changing it to Charlie. Or having the story play in

Oslo and suddenly changing it to Helsinki. Yup, writing has its inner logic, you cannot wash all

the glitches away by calling the writing experimental. That will not fly anymore, not in 2017

here. Dadaism is long dead. Long live, nah here.

706.

Maybe she will just leave the off-numbering, let it be confusing aka colorful here.

61353, she feels sick, barfing would be an option here. On the telly talking about Maher and the

n-word, a lil later they will talk about Comey again here.

707.

Michael Richards and Bill Maher, huh.

708.

Four and forty-eight, the sun is still shining here, kind of aggressively. It interferes with writing,

definitely. This is the weather where you have sangria at the beach.

215
709.

61426, she used to write much more serious stuff, scholarly dissertation-worthy texts. She

watered it all down and produces nothing but fluff. Fluff will not make it, cannot make it. Fluff is

just that, fluff here. Yup, you should be your own worst critic, why not why not why not why not

here.

710.

Two pages, that is what we have to produce here. 6:51 AM on June 14, 2017. There was no

writing going on for some two days or so here, mere editing. And a lot of confusion, there are the

same passages again and again, that happens when you type this up with a computer and are not

writing with a pen. She now has to figure out which passages to cut and how, she does not want

to lose text, not by accident that is. One day she will watch the movie genius, the one that

shows the life of Max Perkins and that has Colin Firth as actor here. She might read the book that

was written by some very waspy-looking guy who went to Princeton and now lives in Los

Angeles, a transplant from the east coast on the west coast here. His stick is writing about

persons, he now has a book out called Wilson, about the life of Woodrow Wilson here.

There is a quote by Katherine Hepburn but it is all about whether these quotes are true or not.

Apparently, it is a comment about lives so very different, the life of an actress versus the life of

an editor, the world of books and the world of movies. Quiet lives versus loud lives. Extrovert

versus introvert. The quiet life of books. But you have to take that with a grain of salt, a writer or

an editor has to tackle a life of being with people just as much as an actor does. The quietness of

the studio, but then it is all about hustling those words, interacting with others. Author here was

in the coffee house pretty early in the morn, construction workers were coming in, getting

216
coffees. Women in big black SUVs too. All of these people who will then go on and construct

something. Something physical. The housewife will put together little portions and mix it all up

and the housepainter will paint a house. Some people wear what they do, you can see what their

profession is here. Author can be anything, writers do not have a certain look here. Maybe

glasses will give it away, maybe the hair in a bun here.

On the telly, one of those judges, it is a different show from the first here. The woman with the

hair that is slightly red here.

We have some eighty words here, we need some eighty more. Seems, that each page has eighty

words here. She will write about people who write two pages per day commenting on their lives,

documenting their lives, describing the visual with words. The two pages, now there is a subject

matter, something like a book writing club. People who come together once a week to critique

each others work here. And collectively go after publishers, write out queries and send those to

editors. In coffee shops. All fictional, you can just make it up. That is what fiction is, you

construct worlds that do not really exist. How is that different from constructing houses, bridges,

containers for people? You construct some new thingie that was not there before. You plan it out,

sketch the plan on a piece of paper. You draw a triangle on parchment and then tell the workers

to build the pyramides. Worked for Pharaoh. Somehow author lost where she wanted to go with

this, that happens a lot these days. Unfinished thoughts, we will edit this later here.

The coffee place in the morn, not much was happening. The banner that says Subway moving in

the wind here. The greyness of the day here. The baby on board sign on the back of a car with

two images of smiley faces. Two babies? Or does it denote the driver and the baby here?

217
The barista still has this hair upsweep, he must have had a bad haircut here. It is not the shorter

guy with the up sweep, there are different kinds of upsweeps here.

The coffee is good and the music is loud here. Something about that I am beautiful no matter

what they say, it is the voice of a woman who talks about her beauty. Not her brains, nah, her

looks. Author ponders, if Sinatra would sing that. Probably not, ol blue eyes was famous for his

eyes thus he did not have to reinforce that fact here.

Two pages seem to come to an end here. She marched all of these words forward here. You

cannot really measure this line by line and word by word here. It seems that this is two pages

here, she ballparks it here. Good luck folks, the judge puts her gavel down. Outside of the

courtroom the television guy and his microphone, talking with defendant and with plaintiff here.

What do you think of the verdict? Litigants for the next case on their way here.

Court dramas are so predictable in their structure, the music, the voice of the person who tells the

viewer what this is all about and his tone is very much as if he is informing the listener of a

salacious endeavor or something, as if he is talking about something secretive. Let me tell you,

the viewer, a secret here. Now an ad for Hersheys chocolate, the one where the chocolates start

to dance and become a heart. A court drama and a chocolate ad, eat chocolate, watch real life

drama here.

On the way to the coffee house author here drove by one of the two old peoples houses near to

her house, the man who always sits there was in his usual place and was watching the world go

by. He is there first thing in the morn. Somebody must wheel him out so that he can look at the

world. There was another woman too who was always sitting there and looking out at the street,

apparently that is what old people are supposed to do. Look at the world as it is going by. Better

218
than watching some court drama on a screen here. She has two pages here, we are outta here and

outta here.

62411, that is it that is it here.

711.

Seven and twenty-seven here. The day is still grey, it will be grey all day here. While it is hot

and sunny on the east coast here, hot and humid. It is cold and chilly here on the west coast. Rain

impending here.

712.

62484.

713.

Shes done with editing here. It is nine minutes after one, quite a lotta editing here. She gets

sidetracked but that is fine here. All part of the creative process. Or more like an excuse for

goofing off. she had to watch the whole episode of Head of the Class in order to know if Simone

said Max Perkins or Maxwell Perkins. As if it even matters, this is over the top fact checking

here. She did not even refer to that sitcom explicitly or maybe she did, who know here. She

wrote vinery somewhere and winery in some other place, she used the word sportscar in places

and sports car in other places. This is all getting outta hand. When do you spell what how? Does

it even matter? Is it not much more about the flow of the story here? Well, you have to become a

stickler when your writing stinks, sucks, is utterly rejected by those people who will reimburse

you for your writings. And those are the ones who will foot the bill for publishing. The ones that

work for the Big Six. Apparently, there are six publishing companies that rule the world here.

219
That make or break all of those lowly writers here. It is us versus them. The writer as underdog

who has to tow the company line, walk the party line. That kind of feel of victimhood does not

become a writer, an author. Whatever happened to the idea of auteur. Of writer as artist. The one

who can shape the language however he or she choses to do. The one who is omnipotent, the one

who can set sails, who can dictate the path, can move over unchartered waters. The writer as

explorer of the language, as the person, that individual that can make up words as she pleases.

That can write the words as she feels. No editor will make her do stuff and that is why we are

unpublished as of yet here. So it is so it is. Time to waltz to the coffee place, time to be distracted

in the mall. Time to be an unsung hero in literatureland, time to rot in the gutter of, well, art or

something here. The language does not help her, she is out of words and out of words to describe

her misery here. And who really cares if you write and type in vein here, we will all die anyways

anyways. Maybe it is more efficient to be a sworn nihilist, that is how you can master the ups

and downs of an existence as a writer here. It was all a shoot in the dark anyways, we are not

married to the idea of being an artist. Art is bogus anyways. No romantic thoughts about art, it is

a subjective science here. Nobody knows which wordings are the best here. You have to cater to

different tastes anyways.

She wrote this one essay five times, and in the end she handed in the least objectionable. A sure

B minus. Maybe she should have handed in the very sharply written, the very strongly opiniated

one, her prof was that kind of person, he liked controversy, anything to rumble up his otherwise

boring existence as a teacher to lesser minds here. He was a sucker for drama. Maybe he would

have given her an A for the strong worded essay.

714.

220
But that is not how it is, usually all profs think the same, there are clear criteria how to grade a

paper. If you just have strong opinions, but bad grammar and poorly conceived arguments then

you cannot make ur voice heard. Or something like that, something of that kind here.

62708.

715.

Some fast words before the night befalls the city. Well, poetically said, very poetically said here.

There is an ad for a toothbrush on the telly, one that removes more plaque than another one.

They are both electrical toothbrushes. Seems that is all that she can write about and btw, the city

has been befallen by darkness already. In two or three minutes, there will be this show with

David Spade and the guy who played the mechanic in Seinfeld, the boyfriend of Elaine Benes,

Puddy something. Seems we watch a tad too much tv here. The television always sings its songs

in the background. Ah, what can you do here?

716.

CNN, the most trusted news. Btw, the other actor in the show is the son of the actress who

played in this movie a long time ago, he was the one who played in the original Odd Couple, the

movie version. Goldie Hawn. The actor is the one who accepted the Oscar or made a funny

appearance at the Oscars with another actor whose name she cannot remember here. Anyhoo,

who cares, let us watch a tad more tv here and we will be right back here. She is going insane

anyways, she was mostly at home, mostly staring at a screen here. Various screens here. Her

neck is hurting, and she feels a tad woozy here. It is one, nope, eleven thirty-three in the nite, we

have 62828 words and somehow the words seem to be stalling here, stalling, I tell yer. She read

about different writers and listened to interviews on u tube here. Norman Mailer, Maxwell

221
Perkins and the interview with the writer of the Perkins biography that inspired the movie

Genius.

717.

62978.

718.

63000.

719.

People were flocking into this place, crowding her. Mainly because she sat wedged on the

barstool in the corner just next to where the queue started or moreso where it made a turn. Next

to the curve of the queue. People of all sizes, people who want to have a hot beverage at nine

thirty in the morning on a rainy Thursday in a city on the west coast here. People in raingear.

There is this very tall and very wide man in black who is fixing something in the back, he kneels

down and one wonders how he can be that flexible given his immense bodybuilt. But he is, as

flexible as a ballerina.

The young barista in the upsweep has had a haircut, he does look overwhelmed. They all are a

tad, there are so many people streaming in. Author listens to the music, Sinatra on the overhead,

New York, New York. She is not quite sure what to make of this, New York is so far far away

from here. It is warmer over there, hot.

She types up her words, fast some. At ten she will watch King of Queens. Her writerly routine is

very regimented, it is like being in the military. No swerving to the left or to the right here. She

still has not seen Jude Law as Tom Wolfe in the Genius movie but she is reading about that

222
online in the excerpt of the book. Apparently, he is the epitome of the mad artist, the mad writer.

In line with others, Jackson Pollock, though this seems to be the interpretation of the writer of

that book, of the biography of Max Perkins. Hemingway as epitome of a working writer and

Tom Wolfe as a stand-in for writers who fight with their demons. These are all interpretations of

lives, they are never accurate and their narratives are just caricature-like.

Writing as a fight with some kind of demons, nah, what are demons anyways. Writing is about

pushing down lil squares and making up a sequence of words, it is like talking into a machine

here. Hers is not a story and one can hold that against her, hers is basically a poem that is

stretched into the form of a book here. 63382, time to wrap this up, for now, for now here. Later

she can some back to describing the coffee house, how it was so very different this morn and

how it is definitely the same as always. The surreal lives in that place, the music, the dimmed

lights. The barstool that is more for swirling whiskey than for having vanilla latte with sprinkles

of nutmeg here.

720.

63451.

721.

Ten and fifty-seven. Author here watched a rerun of King of Queens, the one where an ice storm

is over the city. Now it is just images on the screen, there is no sound. She might as well type up

some more words here. Mold the language. Something like that here.

Bababa, nothing to say. She is wondering what is happening down in the coffee house here. It is

a different time of day, the crowd from the nearby hi-skool must be starting to flock in. Or

maybe it is still the quiet before the storm, before the bell rings.

223
Writing is suffocating her here. How to make up stuff when u have nothing to say.

The dreariness, outside, the rain, the wetness. The drenched city. In June, to boot. Something is

wrong with this picture, but there is a feel of coziness. Might be wet outside, but it is cozy and

warm in here. She turned down the thermostat, so it will go down and become chilly in here but

it is still warm because the heat was turned up. Lingering heat. So this is what we write about,

temperature in the room, the weather. People on the telly, faces on the telly. The paternity court

thingie, Ms. Lake or something, Judge Lake, she tells men if they are the father of a child or not.

DNA diagnostics. There is no sound, author turned down the audio. People who agreed to have

their court proceedings televised. Why would anybody do this? Is it exhibitionism look at me,

look at me? There was this Seinfeld episode nah, we should write on more pressing issues

here. Maybe it should be the coffee house once more or the mall. The drive by the place where

people are waiting to die. An old peoples home.

Writing is not what it is cut out to be. Slinging words, nah. So boring here. You need a barkeep,

writers live in places like that. Social barflys, yup, those are writers here. 63878 words and none

of them even matter here. She should have taken this course in nyc, the one where they teach you

how to describe everyday objects in an interesting, gripping way. The drama of the matchbook.

Somehow author thinks that this is not a teachable item, everybody can do it anyways. Describe

something static, the width, the height. You do not have to relocate to New York to know how to

do that. 63873 here.

722.

A walk thru the city, downtown, all those faces, motion, movement. That is what makes yer

write, eventually here. Stellas painting of the Brooklyn Bridge, the city, the everycity. Faces on

224
the bus, the chilliness of the outside. Another coffee house, one with a different clientele. More

an upscale kind, more a downscale one here. All of this walking thru the city in order to garner

material for her next word concoctions. Ah, just shoot me, writing is the most boring profession

on this whole planet here. How did we stumble upon that here? Poetry, why, what for here?

There is this woman who busks, at least she has a pretty voice here. But writing, nah, why would

you do that when you dont even have a followship, a readership here. Nobody will interview her

on national tv, ever. And this stands at six four oh ten. Yayyyy.

723.

Rain coming down on the city. And it does not end here. On the telly, Big Bang. It is four four

four on a Thursday in June that could be a stand-in for March here. Nothing but the puddles on

the deck outside and the drops that come down incessantly here.

724.

64017.

725.

June 15, 2017.

726.

64073. Apparently, the wordcount is off, it does not register the words and there is a delay in the

machine noticing the new number here. Yup, machines do that, they tend to be incorrect at times.

She ponders, she could write about that. On that. She would go down to the coffee house and

have one of those coffees with the spat of foam and milk therein, but it is way too rainy, way too

225
wet here. She just has 44 liters in the tank anyways and the machine reminds her that she is low

on fuel. Better to sit in here.

727.

64175.

728.

Titans of literature. Who defines them, who makes them into said titans? She will write about

that, on that, in depth, at a later time. Now it is all about the discussion of what she just

encountered in the coffee house. The Maserati, the film crew. They looked very film crew like,

we deduced that they are a film crew. Just like Columbo peels away the layers of, well,

something. Everything pointed to film crew. It will hold up in a court of law, we will show all of

the signs to the court here.

She is losing it, first thing in the morn, not a good sign here. The weather is nice today, nicer

than the day before. You still have to wear a sweater, but the light is friendlier, lighter than the

day before. Not the dreariness of rain in this city, it is sunny, though behind clouds. It is the

perfect sunniness for a long long day of writing here. The right kind of tone in the sky, the right

color. Writers can do their best when the sky is just so here. Tom Wolfe did not look out the

window, he just looked down at his pen scribbling over the paper here. Author looked a lot into

the making of this movie, Editor of Genius here. All the time she thought that it was called

Genius, turns out that it is actually called Editor of Genius. Or maybe the movie was called

Genius and the book was called Editor of Genius. In any case, the genius was played by Jude

Law here, an English bloke who impersonated a towering figure in American lit. or something

like that.

226
She will type up some words here, it is still June, it is still nice weather, sweaterworthy weather

here. She will go out into the world here, downtown, bus, train. She will study the faces of

people in those moving containers, bus, train. The faces downtown. The coffee house was pretty

colorful already, the film crew, the baristas, the Maserati, the small child and her father. Enough

to see to write up a novel here. If you happen to be a novel writer. Which she is not, hers is the

world of short sketches, sketches that are not poetic enough to enter the world of poesy. She

ponders if poesy is written with a Y or with an Ai-EE at the end. Writing is all about that, signs

on paper, lil marks, the transcription of the sounds we utter here. Literature, huh.

There is this book about criticism by this movie critic for the New York Times and this article in

The Atlantic that criticizes said book. She came upon this because he had written a critique, a

review of the Genius movie, the New York Times critic that is. Author here is very murky, she

does not use precise language. We are lazy here, later we will go in and edit this. Make it all

crystal-clear here. She ponders, is crystal-clear language even poetic enough? 64847 or 64845, it

does not take much here to drive this up to 65 thousand here. Sorry, she misread the little icon,

she actually is in need of some three hundred words here.

729.

Titans of lit, her favourite theme. The underlying assumption being that there are no titans and no

real titans. Everything written down is worth to be read, worthy of being canonized here. Which

are the forces that make or break writers? Scribner? And sons? She is reading a lot about

Scribner, who he was, who his children were. The sons. Who are those persons that are the

tastemakers in literature? Where does the money come from? Who supplies it? Are there

differences in writing and who chooses which voices are heard, which voices are worthy of being

heard here. Can she even penetrate that world? Will she, does she want to? The world of visual

227
arts did not let her in, slammed the door in her face, violently, virulently. There are ah so many

reasons why she is not a visual artist here, but they are basically irrelevant. These days, it is all

about writing anyways here. And we have 64 800 words, ah well, ah well here. It is eight twenty-

seven in the ey-em, the date is June 16, 2017. Make that, 64900. Round numbers are the best,

one can wrap ones mind around them, they are less confusing, straightforward here.

730.

At ten it is King of Queens, the tales of Doug and Carrie. Arthur in the basement. Titans of

literature dont watch that, they listen in to opera. Or else, they are no titans here.

731.

Later in the day, she will go down to the mall, hang out with real people. The persons who walk

thru the mall. Retirees. People who are not chained to a typewriter to fashion the next big thing.

People without those kinds of ambitions. What do they give you for being a titan anyways? A

lollipop?

732.

Chasing the unchaseable. Who was Mr. Pulitzer anyways? Nobel? How come all these awards

are named after a guy, Pulitzer, Nobel, Oscar? Male figures, Oscar is just the name of the statue,

there is no Mr. Oscar who gave the name to the statue here.

733.

Winners and losers in writing land, in writers land here. She ponders if she can legitimately

frame this in gender discourse thingies. Maybe her lack of writerly success has more to do with

the fact that she uses words like gender discourse thingie. What does that even mean and who

228
pairs a word like thingie with the word discourse? Over the top mix of lo-brow and hi-brow. In

art, there is a certain way that you can stretch the rules, but just so much, you have to know when

to stop. It is all very mechanical, very technical. There is this scene in the movie (genius), where

Perkins and Wolfe scrabble over lines on a piece of paper, there is a red pen that eliminates

words on a sheet of paper, crosses them out. There is discussion between the two men, heated

ones. Heated discussions. There is this feel of the alcohol place in old New York, once more

cementing the myth of the inebriated mad genius. This is how literature is portrayed to

nonreaders, to moviegoers. It is one version of how to look at literature. And where do words

stand in this world, what is their status? We text all day long, we are bombarded by signs, by

words on the bus. There are words everywhere in the city. But there are always snippets, there is

the news on the telly, but you are constantly changing the channel anyways. There is this book

called television is the new television which posits that tv is not dead, social media did not

outdo tv. Same can be said for publishing, it is not dead, not at all, people churn out words

constantly and there are readers everywhere. Which brings us back to the original question,

where does literature stand in a world where people do not read. Not books, that is.

Literature, is it for a selected few? For students in college, in school, who have to get credit for

reading certain tomes? For analyzing them in essays? And who decides which books to teach?

Award committees? Book of the month thingies, Opera?

The face that the making or breaking of literature is portrayed in a certain fashion, speaks

volumes. The original book was published in 1978 and conceived in 1971. Author here watched

the interview at nyu or at some grad center in New York where Berg was talking to this other

guy. Interesting, huh. But mainly because she does not like the premise that writers are told by

editors and by that implicitly by publishers what to write and what to leave out. The problem is

229
that the person who publishes and the person who writes are different persons. The distributor,

the marketer and the content maker. There will always be friction. The author wants all of her or

his words to be heard. That is why she or he uses that many words. In order to make something

murky crystal-clear. There is not something like being verbose. There is not something like an

overabundance of words. You need that many words to describe stuff here. Anyhoo, we have 65

500 here, time to take five, ah, time to take five here.

734.

Another problem with that movie is, that alcohol and its influence is played up, so is the notion

of mad genius. Madness as inevitable in perfection, in good writing. Which is bullshit, nobody

would say the same about the work of a house painter or a plumber. It is either good

workmanship or shoddy workman ship. Has nothing to do with obsession. Though, obviously, a

house painter who is a perfectionist will produce better work. When is it obsession, madness and

when is it just responsible behavior, the idea that you want to deliver good work, honest work, in

order to make an honest buck?

And this idea, that writing has something to do with seedy bars, that is just a clich. Maybe that

is why there is this figure of Emily Dickenson in all her purity, so lauded, she is the antithesis to

Hemingway, but just as good with words. As good as Whitman, or better. It has a lot to do with

the position of women, with the sister suffragette movement here. 65771, author pingpongs thru

all kinds of fields here. You cannot mix it all up, you cannot tackle the world of publishing in

one broad stroke here. And why should she even think about that? Hers is the production of texts

and somebody else will market said texts. The problem being, of course, that said marketers

seem to be unwilling to market her texts. She has to tweak her stuff, so that it goes neatly into

baskets. Is it fiction, is it nonfiction? What is the genre here? Is it writing about writers? What

230
about the process of writing? About the persona of a person who chooses to be a writer? Why

would a person choose the quiet world of books versus, say, acting? Apparently, Katherine

Hepburn said something like that. She used to be the neighbor of Maxwell Perkins, so the story

goes. He had problems with her having a bust of herself in her living quarters. That is why he

chose the quiet world of books and I am an actress. she quipped.

Author ponders, she knows people who have their own photo on the mantle here. Most people

have it on the mantle. If you are the kind of person who has a mantle. Who lives in a place with a

mantle.

735.

Not much is needed here to drive this up to 66000. She can print it out and once more sit in this

place in downtown and fix it there. Maybe that is what we will do here. Gives us something to

do, ah, something to do here. Btw, 66031 here.

736.

A coffee house? There is not much to write. But, technically, we have 66 tousand about this

theme that is a nontheme. Apparently there is stuff to write about. There is the picture of Jennifer

Anniston in the nail place next to the Subway, her smile, her hair in her face in a way that makes

one wonder who that person is, the iconic face is kind of subverted here. There is the clock in the

distance, the one that is ten to ten when you walk in, and ten oclock when you walk out. The

one above the kiosk near to the gas station. Actually everybody refers to that kiosk as the gas

station, even though it is the place where you pay for your gas or buy Kit Kat or Snickers here.

The place that needs three people to run it even though it is so very small here. The weather is

just so, worse than the day before but better than two days ago here. No rain that is coming

231
down, just the hint of pre-rain in the air. It is a Saturday, not many people inside of the coffee

house. So many seats to choose from. The card does not go thru at the first try here. The music is

indefinable, no famous tunes, nothing she knows here. When she comes back she has this long

long text to go thru, a book with 500 pages, she finished the first one hundred already. There is a

movie, you know, here.

But she will get thru it, even if that means that she has to hover all over town in differing coffee

places and have her nose inside of said book. This one she will finish, it helps that it is pretty

grasping, Max Perkins, Editor of Genius. Yup, she finally bought it, at the bookstore on

Granville and Broadway here. The chap who sold it to her was very happy, an exchange student

or something. British, Australian, Welsh. Something like that here. The woman in the cacao

place told her about her hometown in Australia here.

So many words so many words here.

737.

Still some more words to jot down the day. Or jot down what happened at the coffee house. A

man and a woman, she wearing white and he wearing black except for the Nike sign on the right

here. He is bulky and she is thin. They meet a person they knew, he is shorter and thinner. They

talk about some big event here, something out of the ordinary here. It is a weird clientele, usually

at this time the place is filled to the brim with workers and the speckles on their overalls. Film

crews or what looks like a film crew here. Office workers in elegant ensembles, well, west coast

elegant which is still too casual for east coast tastes here. She writes a tad too much bout the east

coast-west coast divide, maybe that is because of the book she is reading, the one about Maxwell

Perkins here.

232
The day marches forward, but it seems it more reluctantly lingers, not quite knowing where to

go. There are no rules for this day, anything will go. Which is so very annoying, if you do not

have places where you have to be at certain times. There is no structure, no holster to hold u in.

The word holster is used the wrong way, she means some kind of body armor, but a holster

seems to be something u put a gun in. A gun holder here.

She writes and googles her words which is not really that good with this laptop, it is kind of not

working the way it should here.

We have next to the two pages that we need per day, it is June 17, 2017, ten forty-six, the

weather is humid and dry. Or overcasty, we can make up stuff as we go here. The wordcount

stands at 66694, six more words and we have 67 thou, there it is, there it is here. 66710.

Boy, her writing just stinks on this fine summer morn in vancitay here. But we have two pages

and that is all we want here.

738.

Eventlessness in the rain. In the coffee house, it is Fathers Day, not many cars are in that place

here. A white car, some other sporadic cars that are just there for show. Rain rain rain. The man

with glasses behind the counter looks up, the barista knows her order. She feels weird because of

that. A man with too much red in his clothing, he eludes weirdness, strangeness. He is a coach or

something but still.

Not much to describe here, especially if you described this very place so many many times here.

739.

233
She is deep in reading this book about Maxwell Perkins, she was up until two and is now on page

300, it seems not that good to read stuff like that if you are a writer. Reading a book about

publishing makes you second-guess what you do for a living here. On the telly, this show, State

of the Union, they talk politics, and the man who is now on the telly, is wearing glasses that look

exactly like the glasses she is wearing here. Maybe he too got his frames in the corner of the big

bookstore in the mall in Burnaby, bee cee, here. It is all about Rosenstein, obstruction of justice

and stuff like that here. She has 66953, seven words and then some and we have some 70000

words in June of 2017 here. A book that should be published, a book about coffee houses. About

writing, literature, lives of writers here. One life of one writer to be exacting. Her days as a

writer, her having coffee in the morn, her minutiae at the laptop here.

740.

A woman in blond and red. A red dress and a hairband. A man in suit and tie. Dark blue, but he

still has the face of a butcher here. Not a face of a suit guy. He has the face of a country

bumpkin. However country bumpkins look. She ponders, quite a derogative term, anti- country.

Anti-farming. An urban slur. City mice saying stuff about countrymice. And vice versa. It is the

same the world over here. She could write about that, city people and countryfolk and the friction

between social spheres. Not really a subject matter that interests her that much. How is one group

of people different from another? Nah, let us describe the coffee house. These days she does not

frequent the mall that much here. She does not have enough gas in the tank, that is the problem.

The mall as a world in itself. Its subculture, its subcultures here. She ponders, if she would have

gone to nyc, her Residency Intensive at the School of Visual Arts would have been over by now

here. And she would have forked over two thousand bucks to people to teach her how to write.

Instead, she just stayed put and wrote here. Which seems to be more conducive to the career as a

234
writer here. Definitely cheaper, in any case here. And this stands at 67 239 here, yay and yay

here. Not seventy thousand , sorry, the seven was in 67, she makes all of these slight mistakes

here. Ah old age old age here.

741.

We still need half a page or so and then we have enough for the day here. Now BBC, a woman

talking to a man. It is about Russia here.

742.

It is quite explosive a discourse, it seems, that a guy with a stark Russian accent who is quite

funny here.

743.

He is keeping all those corrupt oligarchs in line. He definitely makes sense here.

744.

And outside, the wetness of the day here.

745.

How many words do we need here. We will stop at 100 000, we should here.

746.

Some more words here, ah some more words here.

747.

67377.

235
748.

A deadly blaze in Portugal. Pakistan India cricket triumph here.

749.

She should go back to do her reading here. On the telly, Fareed Zakaria here.

750.

67405.

751.

A walk thru the rain. Well, thru the impending rain. The rain that might come down at any

minute. The waterfall that could start up suddenly. Well, it did not, it was nice and dry here on a

midday on a Sunday in June. A dreary Sunday where a lot is happening here. The city is

brimming even here on the outskirts, in the outskirts. You can look down at the valley which has

the harbor and the North Shore in the distance. The heights here. She has a tea and looks out at

her dentists office on the other side of the street. She has a snickerdoodle that she got for less

than three bucks from the woman with the British accent. The persons who are near the cashier,

they too are British. Seems that this the height of the UK diaspora in vancitay here. The biggest

diasporic community in Canada, those are Brits.

People are buying cakes, because it is Fathers Day here in town.

She will go back to reading her book, it is quite gripping and fascinating. This is the story of an

editor? Yup, a five hundred page long story, more gripping than John Carre. More intrigue than a

Bond movie. A spy thriller. Berg wrote the tale of this one life in a way that you do not want to

put it down here. Apparently, that is his thing, writing gripping biographies. How to be able to

236
write a biography, it is an art form. Nowadays, you can read up on anybody on Wikipedia, but

this biography was written before there was something called Wikipedia. Something called

google, dare I say, something called online. How do you write nowadays when u have to

compete with Instagram? Author here has 67777 words here, at least that is what she thinks. You

really need better eyesight to be able to decipher the wordcount number in the lower left corner

of the monitor. Somehow there are so many glitches in our online world here. We still so very

much live in the real world, we do not live in a virtual reality here. We are at the mercy of our

own bodies that usually misfunction. Author here can definitely feel each day of her sixty-two

year old life. When reading this book, she can hardly see, hardly decipher what she is reading.

The font is way too tiny, too small for her eyesight. Her ability to read this, is just not there here.

She has to find this text in a different edition, maybe, the hardcover edition has bigger letters

than the pocket book edition. She will soldier thru but she wishes that this book was in that place

in the library where they store books for people with sight impediments. Where all the letters are

big and crystal clear. She likes to read about Maxwell Perkins and about Tom Wolfe, but shed

rather do it without ruining her sight here.

752.

67904.

It is one minute after one, it is June 18, 2017. Rain will come down on this city, that is how it

looks, so very very very wet here.

753.

67935.

237
For some reason, the writer of this biography refers to Maxwell Perkins as Max Perkins and to

Thomas Wolfe as tom. He uses both Scott and Fitzgerald when talking about Scott fitzgerald,

once he referred to him as Scotty, or Scottie, but only once. Maybe he uses the shorter forms of

the names so that he can use less characters and thus has more space on the page here. It is all

about typesetting, all about the layout here.

754.

68016.

755.

She could have watched the movie about Maxwell Perkinss life, it has all those first-rate

moviestars in it. And the whole ordeal would have been over in two hours. There is a movie?

That is what non-readers like her exclaim. The non-reading public here.

756.

Lives of writers, seems that a lot of persons who write have documented their process. The story

of a novel, this is a piece by Tom Wolfe. Each person who writes has opinions about the process

itself. Describes the process itself. Seems, each writer has her own idiosyncrasies here. She could

once more go down to the coffee house, watch others who type up stuff on their laptops How

they sit, how they type. Or do not type and instead scroll the WhatsApp on their phones.

757.

One and ten here.

758.

238
Apparently, once Tom Wolfe was exclaiming that he had written 10000 words in a day or he was

singing that, while he was drunk. How would you even know, how many words you wrote if you

wrote longhand here?

759.

Three and thirteen. She bought green beans in the small grocery store in Mackenzie Heights.

There were different kinds of string beens, better ones and worse ones. Obviously, she chose the

ones that were better, less shriveled up. They must have been more expensive, because everyone

can see that they are better. Well, still better here. Seems that this grocery store does not cater to

people who like to sit down and cut up beans, they want to have nicely manicured hands, fingers,

nails, and haricot verts, well they do not go with nice nails here. Even if you say it en francais

here.

760.

On the telly, it is this show called Rhoda, and the woman has a very strong New York accent

here.

761.

Rhoda, huh.

762.

The coffee house was uneventful. It was standing at that weird time between lunch and breakfast.

Neither the lunch crowd nor the breakfast crowd. Some last persons of the ten oclock crowd

here. But mainly people who were retired or between errands, there was a group of students, two,

but they seemed out of place here. There were a lot of people, but none of the regulars. Except

239
for the crowd of baristas, they obviously were the regulars. Although they to seem to change

constantly. there are always new faces here. Near the gas station was the young gas station girl,

very thin, very young student like, very innocent but knowing smile here. There was this yellow

car outside of the window of the coffee house, the one that had writing all over it. It belonged to

a business and the promotion of the business was printed on the car here.

The weather was nice, just at the cusp of dreary and sunny. The summer that might descend on

the city after all here.

On the telly it is this yellingish courtshow, where people fight over who the father is. The

paternity court drama here.

763.

It is eleven oh two, a Monday, the workweek starting up here. Still an uneventful beginning of a

week and hopefully it just stays uneventful. If it is without events, we can discuss that in this

amazing book here. The text that describes stagnation, the non-movement. The quibbeling

around in locations that do not change here. The signs in front of the M and M meat store that do

not allow people to park there. Customers only. The seafood grocery place that she never goes

to. What is really inside of that store? A woman in a white car parks in front of it gets in. The fat

man who goes into the Subway store. There are all these businesses in the strip mall that is not

really a stripmall, all theses businesses that author here never goes into. Vaults that she does

know nothing about. The coffee place on the other hand is her constant frequent hangout, the

place where she starts up her day here. Though she hardly is there at other times of the day.

She writes too much about the coffee place, there is not that much to describe. Not enough for a

text of one hundred thousand words here. She has to go to other places, Costcos, Ikeas, in order

240
to capture the essence of what is North America in the year 2017. People in times after this will

mine all of this, archeologists will quabble over their finds, up do each other. These will be the

finds of the antique in times to come. The future will be the time when we all are gone. Yup,

stating the obvious, that is what her brand of literaturial writing is all about here.

The high school next to the two old peoples homes is still in session. Summer holiday has not

set in neither has the lunchpause here.

At this time we have some 68832 words here. This will be driven up to seventy thousand here.

This is how her days pass her by here. One day she will go on a safari, because that is what

Hemingway did in the book she is reading at this time, went there and then wrote books on it. He

killed himself when he was her age, sixty-two or something. Maybe sixty-one here.

68898.

764.

Not much left to drive this up to two pages, that is all we wish for here. Women on the telly

clucking at each other. Still the paternity court here.

765.

June 19, 2017. Pretty much into the beginning of summer here.

766.

Now people are crying on the telly here.

767.

The judge tells them all off here on the telly.

241
768.

68963.

769.

Now we will know who the father is here. You are the father.

770.

On the telly, a court drama. Which is kind of annoying, for some reason, the tv does not work

properly, one cannot change the channel here.

She was out in the coffee place already. So many people in such a small place. At least thirty

clamoring into that place. One man breaks a mug, a white one. The young barista cleans it up,

with a green mop that has all these long rags coming out of it. He swirls it and it soaks up the

wetness of the coffee. or maybe he cleaned it already up and the mop is there to make it all wet

again and thus getting rid of the stickiness of the beverage. The barista gives her a smile, and he

is very nice about the spilling of the coffee. Others would be annoyed, why the fuck do you have

to spill, watch, what you are doing. The guy who broke the cup, he was reading in a textbook,

taking notes. The book is about high performance for sports, the person does not look sporty at

all. He holds himself very unsporty, he has a hunched over posture. Autor thought that he is

learning stuff for an exam about construction, he can get by as a construction worker, albeit as a

scrawny one. He definitely lacks the physique of a personal trainer, his hair is falling out. Maybe

he will just be on the side lines and yell at people, a coach, something like that. If he will pass the

exam, he will be able to do that. You can do anything if you pass the appropriate exam. You

memorize facts and then you spit them out and somebody will mark the paper and if you passed

242
with flying colors or with anything above fifty percent you will earn a certain certificate, another

paper, that attests to your ability.

You cannot get that kind of certificate to attest to your ability as a writer, with writing you have

to send it out to people who will judge if somebody will fork over the money to print this.

Anyhoo, there are a lot of hi-skool students in this place, more than usual. A whole group is

outside, with a teacher woman in a blue top. Maybe, an exchange class, a class that came from a

different place to the hi-school that is next to the coffee place. Maybe there is some kind of

student competition, there always is something going on like that, regional competitions in

different academic fields, spelling, math, chess here.

There is the odd construction worker rushing into the coffee place, there is a van that says Reid

Brothers Plumbing here. There are all the baristas behind the counter, swirling around. They are

out of coffee, the medium roast, author wants a light one instead. The man behind her wants to

wait or he wants the dark kind here. Somebody in the line smells, people are animals here.

She will go homes and type up the parts of her master piece here, she finished the book about

Maxwell Perkins, all five hundred pages here. This went fast, she just needed three days. Friday

Saturday Sunday Monday, ok, make that four days. The story was a tad too limited, it is just one

biographers version of the life of an editor, one particular editor. Of one particular publishing

house, one of many. There are different publishing houses in nyc, New York is like that, it has a

jewelry sellers row and a row of textile professionals. The garment district. The whole city is

parted, partitioned into finance part, advertising part and the like. Different places where

different offices are. Well, all cities are like that, but New York just was very instrumental, had

clout and it still has. If you want to break into fashion or art then you better move to New York

243
City. She could write about that, how you have to live in Silicon Valley if you want to make it in

IT, how you have to live in Lalaland if you want to make it as an actor here.

Everybody knows that and she can just add some more platitudes here. At this point, she has to

concentrate on what she does best, describe her daily trek down to the coffee house here. For the

last one month o two months she is writing less about the mall, she mostly describes the coffee

place here, the one next to her house. It somehow always looks different, different and the same

here. There are the regulars and then there are the new players. It is like a theater troupe with

ever changing actors here. They all have coffee, though there is this coffee house on main that

now has a liquor license, so in the morn u have ppl drink coffee on barstools and the same ppl

will sling whiskey into their bodies in the evening until they fall off the barstools, all drunk, all

boozed out here. Then they have a nap and then they will be once more in the watering hole at

seven in the morn. The donut shoppe on Forty-first never closes, the hamburger place in the

corner never ever closes. The gas station never closes. Seven Eleven never closes. She is not

good with words on this day here in June, she produces bullshit that has to be eliminated, cut

from this text at a later time here.

69888, what a nice nice number here.

Not that much left to have the obligatory two pages here. On the telly, still the court drama. The

judge is outspoken and from Detroit. For some reason, he always makes sure that you as the

viewer know that that is the city that he is from here. Actually, it should be irrelevant, a judge is

a judge, who cares which city he or she is from here.

Well, he likes people to know which place of the country he hails from here.

244
This will be a long day here, she will edit a lot of her words, she has these printed out sheets of

paper all full of notes in the margins here. All the little errors here.

This is the top of page 245, well, double-spaced and all in Times New Roman here. She is not

quite sure where she is going with this here.

June, so this is June in Vancouver, author here is wearing a wooly hot turtle neck, summer is

passing this city by this year here. It seems as if summer never came here as of yet here.

771.

It is ten and thirty-seven, it is June 20, 2017.

772.

70090.

773.

The day after the summer solstice. She had her coffee but did not write about that endeavor as of

yet. The morning foray into the coffee place near the gas station. Where the seat was weird, she

sat looking at the map on the wall. The big map with the three coffee regions. The barista was

new, at least the one that gave her the coffee. She did not remember her order, the woman behind

the counter, she had to be reminded of what it was. Author here has problems with the she, her

writing is not grammatically ok here. She wants to write about the city instead of writing on the

coffee house. The day before, she was downtown and felt that she should write on this, the writer

and the city. The writer in the city. And there we have some great subject matter here. She saw

this book in the bookstore, in the part of the store where they keep the fiction books, neatly

arranged by names of author here. Alphabetically. First letter of authors last name here. This

245
was on the second floor in the bookstore that is near to her place here. Well, not the nearest one,

there is one small independent one within walking distance, opposite of the donut place,

diagonally opposite here.

On the telly, it is Mike and Molly, there were the last scenes of Friends here.

774.

Every morn there have to be two whole pages, yup, each and every day here.

775.

70375 or 70357 here.

One in the afternoon here.

776.

It is a Wednesday or it could be a Tuesday here. Probably more like Wednesday, hump day here.

Which is weird when you have no job and write for a living. Or not exactly for a living here. It

is, after all, more a glorified hobby. Regrettably here.

There are others who do this so very professionally. Sell copies of their books, do signings. Why

is a book with the authors autograph more valuable than one without a signing in it here? Who

knows, this seems to be the business model.

777.

She has one page already, we still need another page here. She will go out and have a Canadian

Maple, but not at this time here. The afternoon walk will come later here. Seems, she has this

writerly routine down pat, there are certain times to type and certain times to go out for the

246
afternoon walk here. The cottage industry mastered, we can swing this, even without an office.

Offices are for the birds here.

778.

She could drive to this place where they have these fun cookies, snicker doodles. She can park

her car next to it, register out of the corner of her eyes who those people are in the bakery, the

very dainty, very feminine, very englishy bakery here. Where Britain meets the US. That kind of

bakery. Where butter rules here. Snickerdoodles, yumm here.

779.

Today, apparently, it is national selfie day. Will it be sufficient if we take the selfie with the

laptop or does it have to be the outstretched hand with the fone here? On the telly, she watched

Alfonso Romero and this woman talk about national selfie day, he had a red jacket on or maybe

a blue one. She is basically living online here, scouring different images online, pictures of the

booksigning event the day before, pics of 23rd street, and the City as Site thingie at the sva here.

Maybe we have to go to have snickerdoodles, after all, who does not like to pronounce the word

snickerdoodle. Nobody knows what it means, but hey, it just spells out fun. There was this

woman on tv who showed how to make said doodles from scratch here by doing something

called creaming sugar. How will we ever lose weight, all her living moments are filled with

thinking about food, writing about food and having food. This is how we clog this up, one artery

at a time here.

And 70751 it is, it is here.

780.

247
And two pages it is, it is here. On June 21, 2017 here. At one and fifty-two in the evening here.

781.

70807 here.

782.

The coffee in the morn, nice weather, nice enough temperature, actually so very nice, not too

cold, not too hot, very temperate, soothing even. People in elegant office garb, well, what is

elegant on this side of the world here. She is not that keen about using the preposition on when

describing a location, if you write about a place, then in would be better, correcter here.

Anyhoo, there are three construction cars, but once she is in the coffee place it is full with

women who are dressed elegantly, ready to do CEO work here, though the woman in black has

too many earrings, the one near the milk and cream station here. The cars are all white and black,

all Mercedes and other expensive numbers here, the cars are oversized sedans, the equivalents of

monstrous SUVs here. Nobody uses transit, though it is easier when you go downtown or if your

work is in city hall.

The coffee is nice and the barista has one too many tattoos here. The new one, the scrawny silent

one. All the baristas seem to hold three masters, they are that kind of baristas here. The

overeducated kind here. Or maybe not, how would we even know how high the education level

stands here. We did not look at their documents here.

She will rush home and sit at the laptop. That is her office here. She will not change into her

peejays, nope, gotta have this very professional here. Very officey. We are a writer and a

professional one at that here. Once we have accumulated some one hundred thousand words,

248
then and only then it will all go out into the world. It will be rejected, possibly, unintentionally

here. Inevitably here. But it will fly thru the cloud to places like New York City and London

town. People will fan thru her ms and then and only then they will reject it. But read they will,

they have to. My audience is very small here, just my inner circle, just the potential literary

agents here. People who get paid to read. Not the people who pay to read. The commerce of

publishing, a very, so very intricate one here. She had her book signed and now she cannot return

it. Once there is a signature in it, it is damaged goods here. And it will take a long time until this

is a collectors item here.

One page she has already, now a mere eighty words or so and we are done here and done here

for the day.

She will not option this for movies, who will make a film about a woman at a typewriter. Who

will watch that?

Outside, the sun shines on those whiteish blossoms, ecru, that is the name for that kind of color,

that tint of off-white. Off-white, ecru, tomato tomahto.

It is two days after the solstice, now the days will start to get shorer again here. Though

apparently the date of the solstice does not necessarily coincide with the date of the shortest or

longest day in your particular region. Wikipedia spouted off like that here.

She will go downtown, because that is where writers are more comfortable. At least this writer.

Different faces that she does not know. Strangers here. People you can talk to or you can ignore.

Ignoring is better, we do not need new acquaintances here.

249
She might go again to the bookstore but it is a tad too expensive to shop for books constantly.

That is what a library card is for, that is how you get books, you can return them to its original

owner, the city, after you are done here.

Two pages are done and we are outta here, it is eight and ten, in the morning in late June here.

Maybe she needs two or three passages more, she could describe the big images of Sylvia Plath

that she saw in the artskool, where there was an exhibition by participants in a continuing ed

drawing class and they were all so very very good here. Real art, real visual art. Author should

go back to doing that, drawing on paper, on surfaces. The mark making, time to leave scribbling

letters on paper here.

Anyhoo, let us save this and save this here.

783.

71530.

Book three

784.

It is eleven and thirty-four in the AM here. She was outside, took the two which used to be the

twenty-two, but has now morphed into the 2 for whatever bureaucratic reason, somebody in city

hall felt that it was time for a name change here. At least that is how she here understands it.

Whatever the number on top of the bus, there are all these people who take the bus to downtown

here. A kid in a stroller says hi to the bus driver, a young lad who is more outgoing than the rest

of his group. Maybe that is because he is sitting comfortably and people are pushing him around

250
here. By young lad we mean the kid and not the driver here. The very young lad, maybe that

would be more clear here

The sun is still shining, author here has her back to the beach. Before the bridge, one can see the

big lulu lemon sign on a building. Lululemon does that, it constantly changes locations. Long

gone are the days of westbeach, author is not even sure if it still exists. These are lululemon

times and the conquest of the world by persons who wear yoga pants. Skateboarders are so

yesterday here.

She ponders, she will this name Instagram or something, all of these scenes in her book are like

the pics shot on an old i-fone 4 here. Though, technically, she shot her images for her first

Instagram account on an android phone, at least the vast majority of em.

Anyhoo, she went to the Y and then to the nice hotel and then she waltzed thru Nordstrom that

was just opening. Everybody said hi to her, all these very beautiful people in their best garb here.

After Nordstrom it was once more the Arbutus bus up-town. She left it at Granville and

Broadway and she got a book and a coffee here. And then it was the Granville bus and the trek

thru thirty-third here.

This is way too much info here, especially cause she left out all the important occurrences here.

The man on the bus who was from Osnabruck. The bus driver who was talking to him,

constantly, turning his head back instead of looking where he was driving. It was kind of

dangerous, and he said stuff like the media is controlled by four persons, if u know what I mean.

Chances are that nobody knows what he means, though, it kind of sounded racist. Anti-Semitic,

something else. Sexist, ageist. He was a white guy and you know how their minds work here.

You know what that means, just like the guy was saying here. Down with - insert ur message

251
here. Everything smacks of being politically incorrect these days. If you are a white dude, you

must be wrong here.

785.

Another bus driver was talking constantly about his medical condition. Which made everybody

thank their lucky stars that they do not have that condition. Something neurological, a constant

tingling in his mouth here. It did not sound pleasant, obviously. Nobody would say, I want some

of that here.

786.

The woman at the bus station said to her, are u 2 waiting for the Arbutus bus? Author was not

quite sure, but she said YES. Apparently now she was waiting for that bus. Anyways, there it

was. The Four bus would have meant too much walking anyways here, walking uphill. And even

though it is pretty fresh, it will get hot if you exert yourself here.

787.

She spent too much for books in this place, seventy-five this month. Seventy-five bucks here.

The author who signed her copy had signed other copies too. Though they were obviously not

dedicated to certain persons by name here.

788.

Outside, there are landscapers working, lawnmowing people here. In this neighborhood nobody

mows their own lawn. People come from other places and mow the lawn here.

789.

252
She could write about a lot of things, her foray into the city gave her ample amounts of folder for

writing here. Yup, she is that kind of person, always something to say. Never out of words here.

Would be nice if somebody would pay her for all of these words here. How do you profit from

being too verbose for this world here?

790.

Exactly twelve, exactly noon. She is staring at the small icon, there it is, the number changed to

zero one here.

791.

22232, nope, wait, 72232. The wordcount ah the wordcount here. In twenty-eight minutes,

Friends will start up here. She missed King of Queens, watched the going-ons in real life instead.

Observations, documentations. Stuff outside of the realm of a flat screen here. Nobody edited the

real world in order to make it palpable to the user, the viewer here. Though, obviously, you can

change which places of the citay to roam thru here. The beach or the library. The art school or

Nordstrom. The coffee house, she actually had another flat white, in the bookstore. It was her

second coffee today, though she asked for decaf.

792.

The person who sold her the book called her miss. Okay, whatev. A sixty-year-old miss. Are u

calling me a spinster? Is that because I am wearing my hair in a bun here?

793.

72374.

794.

253
72400, apparently there is a lag until the machine counts all of these words here. Funny, huh.

Who is sitting inside of this machine and does all the counting here? An elf, yup, lets go with

that here.

795.

There are different ways to tell a story, there sure are. On the telly, Mike and Molly here. A

rerun, they all are. She watches what is on the telly here, it is Molly in the slammer here.

796.

One and nineteen. She is not happy with the book she got, she bought three books, one of them

was great, the others not so much. Mainly because she did some research when she bought the

first one, she knew what she was getting herself into. The other two were bought on a whim and

that never works here. If it has red flags, you obviously cannot make yourself read it. Profanity is

an obvious turn-off, so is being boring here. Anyhoo, we are typing this up here, later it is time to

go to the snickerdoodle place. Or the Canadian maple place. Nah, snickerdoodle sounds better

here. She just had this Mexican wrap, which will later on come back to bite her. But not yet, we

are good for now here. She ponders if her writing is boring, hopefully not, hopefully. The two

boring books are actually pretty successful, so you never know here. Tastes tend to differ, though

the best option is to see what others say on amazon.com.

797.

Her lil scenes are like pics on an Instagram account but she said that already. She was in the big

bookstore on Granville, she did not have her glasses on, she just looked around, look at the book

covers. The people who work there are interesting. How is that, working in a bookstore? Must be

254
off-putting for people who read. Reading is an acquired taste anyways in a world of moving

images here. Everything is easier digested as a film on you tube.

798.

72754.

799.

1:32 PM, June 23, 2017 here.

800.

A book in 800 parts. Definitely not ordered in the way that other books are ordered here. She

kind of divides this into three books, but mainly because that seems how books are done these

days here. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Which is not really how this text here rolls, it is just a

text of 100 000 words, that is divided into three books mainly by wordcount. Each book is about

a third of the text. Very mathematically, very numbered. Has nothing to do with the meaning

here. There is no plot anyways, at least not yet here. It is more a dear diary affair, yup, that is the

story we stick to here.

801.

She can just keep on writing here.

802.

Very snippy. She quotes what people say on the telly. While outside the sun is doing its own

thing, this is not the weather where you should be cooped up, hum to yourself and push down lil

squares with letters on em here.

255
803.

72930.

804.

Seventy words and we have 73 000. Yay.

805.

One and forty-three.

806.

Coffee in the coffee place, a bus ride, the city, the park next to this place. The donut shoppe.

People interacting. She could wander outside once more in order to mine reality, in order to have

something to write on. Describing the people on bikes on the Burrard Bridge, the ones you see

out of the window of the moving bus. The stories of the city, anycity here. The generic urban

stories, the generic urban views. Bikes, trains. Containers with wheels. That kind of stuff ah that

kind of stuff here. The motion of the city, or something like that, something like that here.

807.

73050.

808.

On the telly, Two and a Half men here.

809.

Outside, the greenery, stark shadows and a tad of wind. On the telly, then laughtracks here.

256
810.

Watching how to make snickerdoodles online. Reading about the etymology of snickerdoodles

here. Her world is very small. Food and how to cook it. There are other things in life, you know

here. She could buy red wine and make red wine cake. Boozy cake here. Better to just write up

stuff here. Drive this up to one hundred thousand here. After that she will have stuff to submit

here.

811.

73220. Twelve and thirty-five. It is actually June 22. Not June twenty-three here.

812.

Seems that once more the wordcount is lagging behind the reality here. It is just staying on

73220 for now here.

813.

Laughtracks here.

814.

73186. Why is this like this. The words go back. Hmm. Maybe because she cut and pasted or

copied and pasted here. Confusing.

815.

Ok, now this stands at 73213.

816.

257
The building of a novel here. Not necessarily a novel, more an amalgamation of words here.

Beads on a necklace.

Life is boring, being some kind of writer does that to yer. Makes you bored. One day she will sell

these her words here.

817.

She was in the village which is this lil place next to her house. Went to the bank the donut

shoppe and the bookstore. The place is actually always bustling, it is as lively as downtown. Or

maybe more, because she usually is in downtown before the stores even open. When the

downtown is desolate. The village however is at the peak whenever she goes there. The village

that never ever sleeps here.

She made sure not to purchase another book, her job is writing here. Typing this text up,

finishing this here. There was a book by this young lad who is all the rage and another book

about Scandinavia. She mainly just sniffed in the atmosphere of the bookstore, an independent

bookstore if there ever was one. Though at this time of year it usually leans heavily towards

books on Paris here. There are always books about Paris in the window, the vitrine, at any time

of the year. They seem to sell very well, even the bakery next to that place has a French name.

Faubourg whatever that means. There is this very expensive street in Paris, where all the

Pradaish stores are in. Fauburg St. honore, maybe. But apparently, faubourg just means a part of

the city. There are different faubourgs. Like the boroughs of New York here. Anyhoo, we have a

Canadian maple and it is the walk home. It is getting a tad too hot here. June in Vancouver,

nothing to say about that here. No rain no rain no rain here. Yay. Everybody is happy.

818.

258
She walks by the store with booze, she walks by the fancy pizzeria. She will go there one day, it

is usually pretty full in the afternoon. The place to be here. The liquor store lets you liquor up

from nine in the morn until eleven in the nite, seven days a week. It is not like a real liquor store,

no wino will ever set his foot in there. It is basically a boutique, that happens to sell alcohol. It is

an upscale place to get your ethanol fix here. Seems that all these places in BC are like that, the

craft breweries, the Granville Island distillery, the beer place on the island here. It is more geared

towards the social drinkers, not the ones that pass out in the alley. The ones who stagger around

in drunken stupor. Author grew up with that, living in a port city after the war. Anyhoo, Big

Bang is on the telly, the telly here.

819.

73693 here, at four and twenty-five here.

820.

Maybe she should mention the temperature too here. All these numbers ah all these numbers.

Slowly outdoing the words here.

821.

Once more laugh tracks and Big Bang here.

822.

And now the theme song here. So this is how we fill the page, describing the songs of the telly

here. Her writing sucks but judging from her recent purchases so does everybody elses. It is hit

and miss, as she stated before. Or maybe she did not. Whatev, yup, whatev here.

823.

259
The biography of Maxwell Perkins was great. The author has written all those other biographies,

she should buy those. Or just read the books in her bookshelf, the ones she never came around to

reading here.

824.

23804. Sorry, 73804 here.

4:37.

825.

The news outta Boston here. Author always watches the news outta Boston, the news outta nyc,

LA and Seattle. Sometimes Edmonton. But nyc is the most watched and after that Boston here.

Mainly because she watches the sitcoms on those channels here.

826.

She has gained a lotta weight, seems as if she doubled her weight since x-mas. Well, not really,

but if u gain weight you just look extra chubby. The new fat rolls are not really well distributed,

the double chin and the muffin tops are really pronounced here. Well, she goes for walks, at least

we do not want to keel over from a heat attack. What if the extra poundage will strangle those

poor vascular thingies. And the blood flow is just obstructed here? Apparently walking helps, but

too much walking is not good either here. Anyhoo, litquake has pictures of ten famous book

horders, from Karl Lagerfeld to George Lucas. Thus we are nothing like that here. Author can

easily get rid of her books, no biggie here. Though, come to think, her shelf is filled with books

that she bought and never read here.

827.

260
But she has given away books that she read, to the take a book, give a book place and to the

salvation army store here. She even saw her book on the bookshelf in the salvation army place

here.

828.

Five and thirty-five here.

829.

Pick up where u left off: 46 minutes ago. She is trying to drive this up to ten thousand, sorry, one

hundred thousand as fast as she can here. There is something to be said for feverish typing, the

urgency will come thru and will make the words shine without even trying. It is inevitable,

brilliant poetry all be accident. Because you never know which words are good and if you will

hit jackpot, her kind of writing is like that, it is never planned, it is totally intuitive. She just

gambles, does her writing stint and wishes for the best here. The main thing is to do the writing

each and every day, later on you can kill your babies, though it is arguably always painful here.

830.

On the telly, Bones. It is always well-thought thru, always good here.

831.

She listened to a lot of music, watched music videos, everything from You never had it so

good to the letter, some kind of polka, sauerkraut or so, it never rains in southern

California, the house of the rising sun, early morning rain and a song by this Dutch singer

and show man. How did we even exist before there was you tube here?

832.

261
74215, six and twenty-seven minutes here. A day in June, yup, a day in June here.

833.

Welcome back where u left off some nineteen minutes ago. Well, the software does not put it

that poetically here. But it still awaits her words, patiently. The writer in the evening or what

counts as evening here. Outside, it is still bright, bright I tell yer. But inside here it is all about

typing this up here. The laptop is definitely taking up her time, she peruses, well, everything,

instead of typing up her story. How did Fitzgerald and Hemingway do it? Is that why all the

greats have died and why todays writers are not that great? Or maybe the problem is that they

are alive. Dead poets society anyone?

834.

Six fifty-seven in the PM. For some weird reason, she cannot attach her word document to her e-

mail. It always happens at this time of the day. Who knows what these machines are thinking,

they too listen to their volice in their heads.

835.

74447.

835.

Another episode of Bones or we could change this to Modern Family here.

836.

Proper eating, proper exercise. Health. We should become one of those, a fitness buff. Biff wants

to be a buff here. A line from Seinfeld, as always. Biff was male though, so somehow the

262
connotation is wonky here. Whatev, it always seems to be here. And there is definitely an

oversupply of the word HERE here.

837.

Literature land, maybe the prob is that we call it lit land. Literature is something to be revered,

not something to be spewed out in passing. There always are right ways to do stuff and wrong

ways to do stuff. Literature, huh.

838.

Mixing short words in, using terms like stuff, this will not fly. You can ignore the rules

sometimes, but not all of the times.

839.

She still has literaturish aspirations, even more so after reading the book by Berg, the one about

Maxwell Perkins. What she took away from it, is that persistence is the most important element

in writing. And that there is no correct way of saying something. Seems, there really are no rights

and no wrongs in art. Her old teachers were right after all.

840.

Seven and twelve here.

841.

74657.

842.

Seven and twenty-nine.

263
843.

74659.

844.

Time to go for a fast walk thru the neighborhood. It is not all about sitting and typing and sitting

and watching what is on the telly. The life of a couch potato has dire consequences.

845.

Boozing that is what dyed in the wool writers do. In the local watering hole. If push comes to

shove there are no watering holes near to where she lives here. And that is why this

neighborhood does not produce writers, at least not writers that are worth their salt here.

846.

Seven and thirty-eight. PM.

847.

74752.

Rand Paul on the telly, ah, he should have been prez. What could have been

848.

Seven and forty.

849.

Politics, huh. Reading up on what Ron Paul has to say. Someone wrote in the comments, why

could he not have been our president? So true. Or Bernie Sanders.

264
850.

Politics intertwined with descriptions of coffee houses. Will it work?

851.

Two hundred words and then we will have 75 thousand here. Build a book in the same way that

you would build a wall out of bricks.

852.

On the telly, talking heads.

853.

One hundred and fifty words. What can you really say in 150 words here? Just the description of

the last lights on the greenery outside, the illumination of the browns of the tree here. The

slightly melancholical tints, the end of the day, the impending night here. The darkness that will

set in here.

854.

74910.

She wrote quite a lot this day, she will go back in and count this so that she knows the exact

number. The nanowrimo site is good for this, it will tell you exactly how many words you have

written today. But, hey, it is not November yet here.

855.

Thirty-nine words. Some sentences and then we can leave this here.

856.

265
Eight and thirty-eight in the pee-em.

857.

Twenty words and then this is done for the day here. Nine more words and then we will have,

voila, 75000 words here.

858.

Seven fifty-six in the ey-em. So near to eight here. She had her daily commute already, she is

now in the office. What has to be standing in for office here. It is just a chair in front of a laptop

in the room with the green couch here. She used to paint lil watercolorpics of flower vases,

three, at the kitchen table, now it is writing two page long accounts of her forays into the coffee

house world, each and every day, each and every day here. Accounts of the same place, with

varying customers. Yup, the locale is the same, the actors are ever-changing. The baristas she

knows, the woman with her head in a bun, the tall man with glasses who used to wear no glasses

and the shorter one here. The woman with earrings and black and white outfit, she was there the

day before, she was described in authors piece here. Thus we know that she wears more than

one earring and yup, it is her, we know, we remember those earrings, we wrote about them.

Looking at people as if they are sculptures, three-dimensional moving objects, documenting the

visual significances. This is what writing is here, describing what we see. An exercise in writing,

dispatches from the coffee house here. Stuff that may or may not find a publisher, stuff that will

be recited at a reading in a coffee house in Vermont or Oregon. The life of a writer is ah so

weird, it is after all an exercise in futility. So is running a marathon, so are lots of things. Singing

songs and recording them, making movies that end after two hours. The arts are interesting,

funny, definitely surreal here.

266
She has a page or so, thus we merey need one more page and then we are done here for today. At

this rate, this will be finished come October, and then it is time for November writing here, for

the national novel writing month. Apparently, you can send out fifty pages of your ms to this

place in New York City, to this address in or near to Union Square. They then will decide if they

will take you on but you have to wait some five months or so until they give you their final

verdict here. Until then you can polish your work, get rid of the obvious errors, iron out the slight

and debatable glitches here.

Apparently, they roll old-school, they really want a submission done on paper here. No e-query

which is nice. Author does not know if this can be done simultaneously, which apparently means

that you query other publishers too. Other agents, lit agents here. Because if you just send your

words out to one publisher, then you have to wait and wait here. Until the cows come home.

Funny expression, btw, the one about cows. As if we hear cows here in suburbia. This is not

Switzerland, mind you here.

Her writing today is off, there was nothing interesting going on in the coffee place. Just people

getting their coffees. This man with totally bald head, he made it out of his very packed van,

apparently he is working in construction. But he was so very polite inside of the coffee house.

The coffee house does that to yer, everybody behaves as if they are at an audience with the

queen.

Where she sits down is not very good, the sun is in her eye. There are two women talking next to

her, one thin, one enormous.

What else?

267
Not that many people, but a steady flow of coffee drinkers. Everybody just parks in the parking

lot, gets their coffee and is out of there. The man in front of her in the line, he is so very tall and

wide. Dressed in black. A woman shuffles different cups, people always get more than one cups,

apparently it is called coffee run. Does coffee run?

She has her two pages, this stands at 75600 and something, it is late June in 2017. The weather is

sunny, nice, there is a breeze coming up the hill from the Pacific Ocean here. She has laundry to

do and cleaning to do. And writing, btw. She can go out and do the downtown thing, in order to

explore new things to write about, new worlds to document. The problem is that she is staying

put here, she is not venturing out into the world, to other continents, other states. It is all so very

secluded, just a description of the worlds in one city here. Anyhoo, whatev, still writing, still

writing here.

859.

75780 here.

Eight and twenty-eight, AM. June 23 in 2017. Just saying here.

860.

And save this and save this here.

861.

75801.

862.

On the telly, Mike and Molly and a lotta laugh tracks here. A rerun, whatev. Somehow this is not

how the art career was supposed to go, typing up ditties that basically suck. The idea of

268
documenting whatever there flimmers over the screen has not quite made it and possibly never

will. You either watch what is on a screen motioning around or you read. Combining the two,

that is just a soso, lukewarm idea here.

Outside the sun is shining, so summer is coming into town all right here.

863.

75807.

864.

Writing, huh.

There is nothing to describe here, we should take the bus downtown, those minutes that are not

spent behind the typewriter will do her good here. Because what can you really write about when

you are cooped up inside in a semi dark room where only the telly is singing its songs here. One

day, that one day when she will start writing about real stuff or make up stories, that day when

plots will come to her out of nowhere. But until that day, we will just do the typing here. 75987.

So still some words here, still some words here. The last secs of Mike and Molly, laugh tracks ah

laugh tracks here. Three more words, yay, 76017, she was watching the icon until it changed

here. Magic. See, and you thought there was no plot, who has ever written about the monitor of a

laptop and how it feels to stare at it constantly here. The life of a writer, how can anything be

more fascinating here. Just like watching paint dry, yup, that kind of feel here.

The sun is shining, but not that much, it is a very polite sun that makes sure not to have people

all steamed up inside a subway station, fanning themselves with rolled up magazines here.

865.

269
Btw, the jazz fest is in town here, there are always free concerts at noon in front of the cbc

building in downtown here.

866.

76141.

867.

Another episode of Big Bang here. Though beforehand it is all about ads for various products

here. Outside happy sunniness. Inside here mindless pushing down of the keys. The words might

march nicely or not and after a while nobody cares anymore.

868.

So nice, Family Feud. An ad for some blood thinner. Well, it is entertaining, the sights and songs

on the telly here. Author churned out 1000 words or so on this Friday in July. No philosophical

insights as of yet.

869.

Another episode of Family Feud, if you can name it that. Episode, huh. Quite a loud program,

either loud music or laod applause.

870.

Short sketches, all that she remembers from the coffee house. Where people look at their phones,

talk into their phones, all they do is talking with people who are somewhere else. Nobody ever

lives in the location that they are, it is as if one constantly has to be in contact with people that

are somewhere else. The here and there is not enuf. The picture of Jennifer Anniston in the

window of the nail place, the subway flag, the inscripts near to the gas station, the big red coca

270
cola truck. The coffee milk that is finished and the people who are too timid to ask for more here.

The shade over the window, the relief for the glariness. The too thin new barista, in blond and

black here. The man with the funny accent, the one that we cannot quite decipher, where are u

from, sir.

The urgency to rush home and type up some two pages so that the day can begin for her. The

obsession with writing that seems to be getting clinical here. Overobsessed, when are you

overobsessed and when r u underobsessed. We are so happy that u found something to do with ur

life here, who would have thought that it is all about documenting the most banal moments of a

life here. The coffee in the place next to the gas station, the slight walk thru the mall here. The

faces of the other mallwalkers, the ones that she has not seen in ages. She has not been to the

mall, just sits in here and types up memories of coffee house interactions. Nobody is special

here, nobody is interesting. Two men in black are sitting at a table in the corner, they are both

equally ugly. Value judgements about peoples looks, who cares who cares. Writing should be

about more, deep insights, stuff that might make u run around with a red flag and start a

revolution. Or something like that. Inspiring words. This is not her mtier, she describes the

different colors of the cars in the parking lot in front of the coffee place here. There are two

columns, in this place, two narrow brown columns that hold up the roof. Right smack inside of

the room, author here never ever noticed those before. She now leans on one of those columns,

well, slightly here. The two columns that were virtually invisible till now. In all her years of

frequenting this place she never ever saw those columns. Maybe someone came over nite and

inserted those into the room here.

One page is down, we just have to produce one more page here. Then the day can start up, then

the day can go on. It is a Saturday, she will go to this coffee place on Main, where they serve

271
liquor in the eve. Coffee in the morn and booze in the nite. You never have to leave here, just

stay here and drink something, anything here. Talk to the barkeep, tell him your sorrows. Tell her

your sorrows here.

One more page, writing ah writing here. Her writing sucks, there is no way around it. She

watched this piece where Karl Ove something, Knaus, maybe, or Krauss, you know the

Norwegian overnite sensation out of writerland, the one who is good looking, better than most,

he was talking about his process and walking thru the streets on New York, mainly thru SoHo.

This other guy was interviewing him and interrupting him, at least that is what the trolls said.

Everybody was complaining that the interviewer talked too much, which actually was not

apparent to author here.

Anyhoo, seems, we have enuf for the day here, we can do our life our life here.

76875, 9:42, June 24 in 2017 here.

871.

Apparently, we do not have enuf words here, still some more typing some more typing here. The

sun is shining, did we mention that already here.

An ad for an insurance company, not a good one though. A car insurance company ad.

872.

76926. She can drive this easily up to 77000. On the telly, a war zone. Now a person who is at

his laptop and is apparently a journalist here. All these war journalists. Now Zuc. Of Facebook

fame here.

873.

272
Nine fifty-five in the ey em.

874.

Still 76977, still some more are needed here. She read thru this, she now edits while doing this, it

was getting too cumbersome to do it all in one big whoosh. Seems better to do it in short

increments here. Her way of doing things cinstantly changes, that is how you make sthings stay

interesting here. That is what keeps u from being bored to death here. Btw, tis stands @ 77047,

time to wrap this up here, time to wrap this up.

Ten in the AM, a round round number here.

875.

There is of course the question if one should cut ones hair or not. And people discuss that on

social media. If it is discussed in a book, there is a lag. A play on the theme of social media here.

A critique, maybe. There are others better to write about that. More equipped ones. More learned

ones. More scholarly ones. She ponders, what she means by ONES. Writers, treatises?

She walked down to the village, had a tea in mackadees. Looked at the place that burnt down.

Six or seven stores burnt down. Two days ago, in the nite apparently.

She went to the upper part in McDonalds here. Two men were talking in Mandarin or Cantonese.

Two persons were doing homework, it was kind of a tutor student thingie here. Author sat and

read thru ten pages of her text, edited it. For the better or the worst. You never know. She looked

out at the street, she had that kind of seat, overlooking the place, though one could not really

look down, the trees, the greenery were in the way.

876.

273
77253. Seven seven two five three. She needs 23000 words in order to drive this up to one

hundred thousand words. She ponders, maybe, it is better to cut this short here. Book three, very

short. She is repeating herself anyways, dances around in circles. She will not come by new

insights. There are no new insights here. Everything has been done, everything has been said

here.

877.

She will go out, in one hour. Has to get ready here. She feels fatigued, tired, she would rather

sleep. There is a boring meeting at two, all meetings are boring. Sleep rules, along prolonged

nap. Napping is definitely more her thing here.

878.

When did this get so autobiographically? The dear diary element will do her in. it is detrimental

to good writing here. Writing has to be objective, not subjective here.

879.

Reflections on writing, who will read that? Who wants to read that here?

880.

Maybe she can write this in one big whoop. All 23000 words. Who says that you have to take

forever to write a book? Short, fast, hurried sketches, they will make it. It is the sum of the whole

thing, the sum of the images. Like in a movie, like in real life. Moments, one after another here.

No time to respite. FOMO is taking yer with you here. The fear of missing out here.

881.

Fomo. fomo. FOMO. How do you spell that correctly?

274
882.

Twelve oh three.

883.

77499.

884.

She went down to the village and did a tad of editing down in the donut shoppe. She forgot to

take a pen, so she folds the pages where there is an error. After five pages she has enough, wants

to go home to fix the glitches. She got a Canadian maple here.

Before, it was all about meeting up in the coffee house on Main. The one that now serves beer

and wine too. Liquor. Is it a coffee place, is it a bar?

Main is tres chic now, all nice stores, all nice restaurants. All gentrified here. The prices of real

estate are sky rocketing, so they say here. The sun is shining, it is basically a heat-wave here in

town.

It is June now, a tad too much of June. A June with a nice breeze is a tad more pleasant here.

885.

Seven forty-four PM. 77652. June twenty-four here.

886.

The telly is singing its songs. Aljazeera. Outside, the sun, the shining. This one part of the tree

outside is always bathed in sunlight at this time of the day, illuminated. It is eerie, this much

275
light. This much reflection on the tree-chunk. It looks as if the bark is illuminated from within. It

has a surreal look here.

887.

77717.

888.

Still no plot here, still no plot. And there will not be one, not in the foreseeable future here. It is

all about coffee houses, malls, trains. Eventless days. Descriptions of the real, stuff that you can

touch here. The poetics of the everyday and its deafening sounds. Meh, maybe the metaphor is

off, who knows, who knows here.

Time to booze, boozers are the far superior writers. The chosen ones. The ones that can hold

their liquor. The ones that drink everybody else under the table. Those are the writers, authors,

poets, that will make it into the history books, the ones that people will talk about long after they

are gone, long after they have turned to dust here. Author here will not be one of those, she

merely drinks tea. Tetley from Costco. You cannot write poetry while having tea from Costco.

This does not go with that. There is romance in good words. A bohemian glimmer here. There

are emotions or something. Ah, on the telly a woman who looks as if she is a curler.

Apparently it is about car racing, not curling. Besides, it is summerr, there is no curling going on

at this time of the year here.

The woman is an anchor who is shot in full figure. Instead of just the head. She is holding her

sheet of paper in front of her and that is why she looked like a curler who is getting ready to

276
shoot the puck. The paper looks like a puck, it is a tad too big. All you can see is that she is

holding a pretty big rectangle here.

889.

77795.

Some more words and it is eight oh three here.

890.

Eleven forty-seven here. Next to midnite. On the telly, Saturday Night Life, an old show, the day

before Mothers Day show.

891.

Those two pages that have to be driven down here. While the heat wave is plastering the city,

while the plants might need water even before their time mainly because it is suddenly so hot

here in town. Out of nowhere, summer set in. nobody knows how that works, why there is rain

and why there is snow and why there is sunniness to the nth degree.

She sat near the window, facing the people who go to church on the other side of the street. A

woman leaves the coffee house, in straw hat and a t-shirt that says Maui, but for some reason on

the back. A wishy-washy t-shirt that wants to be tie-dyed but not too sixties, not too hippieish. A

shirt for people who are good consumers, for people who go to Hawaii because they have money

to spend. People who buy into the notion that Hawaii is the pace to be, if you have vacation days

from your job working for the man here. T-shirts like that might be souvenirs or lil gifts for

people by travelers. We should not read too much into that, the thing that is interesting is that

some people go to church in funny old-fashioned clothes that look like they are stuck in the

277
twenties, nostalgic garb and others prefer to have coffee at the local watering hole. It is all about

choices here. A moped drives by, the person is sporting a cute helmet, a white one. It must be a

girl, something about the figure cries out female here.

Author is back in the coffee house, this is what she does. Inhales scenes in the coffee place and

rushes home as soon as she can to jot them down, to reenact them on paper. There are people at

the bus station, it is a Sunday, so there is an extra wait. Old people and young people, kids too.

The bus will take them uptown if it ever comes here.

Seems, there is a half hour wait or something, it is really immense. In downtown, there seems to

be the pride parade. Or not, her radio told her bout the one in t-dot here. The car is annoying, the

radio and the cooler both blast with vehemence. Somebody else used the car the day before and

did not turn off the appliances, the machines here. So, if you start the car, those turn on

automatically. She is not quite sure if she likes that, she has a tendency to turn those off. She

prefers that things are done just right so, if they are not, then her world is out of control, out of

whack. The loss of control, we are losing control here. We are at the mercy of random

occurrences. Her mental state seems to be pretty defect these days here. Her OCD, her self-

diagnosed one, seems to get the better of her. Ppl. take medications for OCD, at certain times of

the day. Or not. She knows ppl. who have OCD, apparently that is really a thing, not just a page

in the manual that classifies diseases in North America. Something that u can take medication

for, chemical substances that are developed in a lab in Basel, Switzerland here and then shipped

out to the US in big containers on transcontinental ships that roam the oceans of this world. Boy

can she talk gibberish first thing in the morn here, must be the influence of the person on the

radio, they always talk about the most banal things in great detail, in a schoolmastery tone. They

too make it up as they go just as we do here, it just sounds official because there is the

278
intermediary of the mic. Author here ponders if her nonsensical insights sound legit because they

are typed down, in words on paper here. Well, at this time they are only letters on a monitor, the

monitor of the laptop here in the room with the green couch here.

Some day they will be printed out after editing and then they will be bound and the leaves will be

stitched or glued into a protective covering sheet, one that is thicker than the individual pages

made out of mulch, pressed mulch here. Everybody knows what a book is, maybe she should not

go into detail about that. Maybe she should get back to the stuff, the things that she observed in

the coffee house on the street near her house here.

Scenes from a coffee house, there are so many, there is the music on the overhead which is kind

of like rap and which does not go with the slow and languid walks of the people who are

streaming into the Hellenic center. From this angle, that place looks more churchlike, it must be

the door and the light inside, suddenly it has the feel of an old world church building. The

Hellenic center looks more like the Acropolis or something like that, white, a dome, columns. A

play on the theme of an archaic temple, something like, well, exactly the Acropolis. Something

very Greek, doric or ionic or corinthian columns here. The center is the personification of

everything Greek especially for the non-Greek eye here.

Greekness for when they ruled the world. Just like Columbia, in nyc looks like that, faux-Greek.

Maybe, architectural descripts are not her thing, the architectural critic for the New York Times

can rest assured, his job is safe. His or hers.

78046, she still needs a page or so here.

Outside, the strawberries are in full bloom, though she is not quite sure if that is the right

description. The plants are bearing fruit, kind of watery strawberries that have a shiny red that is

279
not dark enough, more orangey than red. You cannot say that the plants are in full bloom, blooms

precede the fruits. They turn into fruit.

It is all about using the exact language, the right words and lots of em. The nite before, she

watched this movie on the telly until she fell asleep. A movie where Penny from Big Bang

played a successful author who is resented by the rest of her writers group because she is really

successful, she got an advance by a publisher, she got a six-figure-contract with a movie maker

in Hollywood.

There was this book signing in a hardware store, where a man who wore funny glasses was

peddling his self-published books, he sold eleven, though the woman named Strudel reminded

him that she used one of the books to prop up a door or hold up a door, book as doorstopper,

book as three-dimensional object, not as holder of ideas here.

The authors in this movie which btw. was called Authors Anonymous just like Overeaters

Anonymous, or Alcoholics Anonymous, though more like AA, because, well, that is how it

would sound if abbreviated- anyhoo, author here, this author here, lost the flow of the story, she

describes stuff in detail and then gets lost in her own long rambling tirade.

The writings that those people did where more like plot driven thingies, there were characters

and scenes, these were solid stories, that could be watched as crime drama or soap opera. Stuff

salacious, stuff dramatic. Stuff that usually does not happen, stuff on the other side of banal here.

It is ten twelve, on a too sunny morn in a too sunny citay, on June twenty-five here in 2017.

79272, if she stays put and churns out all of these words, she will drive this up to a round eighty

thousand by the end of the day here.

280
She will go out and get a snickerdoodle, somehow, that much writing calls for a trae t here.

She is back from the snickerdoodle purchase here, the woman with the slight accent asked her do

you want one or two.

When she came out of the bakery she saw those two dudes that were always in her old gym, they

were standing chatting with another dude in front of the neighborhood deli. This place really has

its own villagers who do exactly the same things at the same times of the day. The routines of

people that never ever change here. It is not that they work for a certain place, it is more that the

majority of people on this planets are non-nomads. And if they leave their places it always has

some kind of urgency, war, a catastrophe, at least that is how it is. This is how it is framed by

people who are nomads for a living. War correspondents, opinion makers. It is always that

moving around on the planet is a bad thing here. It does not have the whiff of tourism, the

deliberate roaming. It has the strong smell of dislocation. It is the idea of adventure versus

security. What is more secure than sitting at a typewriter and penning stuff? Talking to a

monitor, basically. You have to add drama, when in fact your only drama is that the milk in the

fridge is going bad or Reuters will not publish your 500 words anymore and will not pay you a

certain amount of money per word here. Writers as people who run the world. Fake news, haha.

Well, he should talk, he sells containers of people here. The slumlord of Queens. Author

ponders, there is too much of that going on here, Trump is after all just as good as Obama just as

bad as Obama. American presidents do not differ from one another at all. Hate 2 break it 2 yer,

but that is how the cookie rolls here.

892.

281
The following three lines she cut from another part of the text. By accident. The machine did that

and this would never ever happen if she wrote longhand. Here with WORD, she writes

something and then goes away and comes back at a later date to write some more. Sometimes it

gets screwed up here. She will later on edit this and put it in the right place here. Or not. Maybe

she will just leave it like that, a collage of ideas instead of a chronological flow of ideas here.

And the following four or five lines are the ones that were part of a different passage but which

are the ones which are scrambled up here. Apparently we love to write about snickerdoodles

here. Maybe the whole text should be called snickerdoodle. Yup, an idea, and not necessarily a

bad one here. Who are the people who will buy a book named snickerdoodle? Hungry ones?

People who like nonsensical terms for concoctions of mixed flour and baking powder, topped

with butter lard eggs, sugar, cinnamon? Snickerdoodle, huh. The snickerdoodle she got from the

bakery is tad too sugary, it is not a fresh one here. Differences in snickerdoodle land, even more

fascinating a theme than divers coffee houses, diverse places to booze here.

Watching how to make snickerdoodles online. Reading about the etymology of snickerdoodles

here. Her world is very small. Food and how to cook it. There are other things in life, you know

here. She could buy red wine and make red wine cake. Boozy cake here. Better to just write up

stuff here. Drive this up to one hundred thousand here. After that she will have stuff to submit

here.

893.

It is fourteen minutes after eleven here in this too hot room here. She could go down to the beach

but let us face it, it is even hotter over there. The best to be is the mall or the airport, places with

lots of air-conditioning here. Coffee places next to her house here. The gym, the Y. She could

weigh herself but she knows 4 sure that she weighs way too much here.

282
894.

79993. Seven more words and then we have eighty thousand words here. Eighty thousand extra

words that were not there, not written up four months ago. Kerouac wrote ON THE ROAD in

tree weeks, so it can be done, it can be done here. All the participants in nanowrimo produce at

least 50000 words per month, one woman in Iceland wrote 50000 words in seventeen hours.

Make of that what u want, whatever u want here.

Karl Ove something, he writes these long long books here. So, people do that, and they get

published, they get their words out into the real world here. Their family and friends read what

they were up to, author ponders if she really wants people to mock her stuff. And the ones near

to you will always be utterly merciless here.

895.

She ponders if she should have her hair like this, is this the hairdo of a writer? Hair in a bun,

glasses. The look of a librarian, some bibliophile, somebody who roams in between mothy stacks

of books here. The persona of the writer, the persona of the reader. The very meticulously

manufactured persona of the writer. Author here did that for visual arts, she could do the same

for writing. It is always about the right outfit, the right hairdo, I tell yer. You are what u look like

here.

Anyhoo, still writing, still writing here. Somebodys cell fone makes noise in the distance here.

896.

She could devour that Mexican wrap or the snicker doodle with the sugar crystals on it, the one

that is way too hard for a snickerdoodle here. Both the coffee shop and the bakery leave their

283
wares in the display until they are all sold here. So sometimes the food is a day old, a week old.

Same happened with the bakery in Yaletown, if you caught them on the day that the pastry was

fresh from the oven it was a totally different ballgame then when you waited. Stuff goes stale in

all stores the world over here. Freshness versus staleness. Now there is a subject matter we could

elaborate on.

Nah, shed rather go to the mall, take the train down to, well, downtown. Look at all the faces

that pass by her here. All different expressions. Besides, downtown is cooler than here where

everything is residential. The skyrises give shade to the city here.

897.

One of these days she will make her way down to New York City. It is not really down there not

up there either. Sideways maybe. The flight from the west coast to the east coast here, a trek

done many many times before. She knows the drill, can perform it while being asleep. Knows

which subway to catch from JFK. She did the same when she went to Zurich a lot, it was very

clear which route to take. She did the same when she was a kid, the commute between Hamburg

and Teheran. This is how one should travel, in a way that eliminates dislocation. You are not a

nomad if you know exactly what steps to take next. Predictability in an uncertain world, an

uncertain future here. We will all die, but until then we should be able to fashion, to construct a

sure world, an overseeable world here. No sudden things, nothing that was unforeseen here.

Predictability is everything, we hate sudden occurences. Nothing out of left fields please. She

finishes up her ode to routine, to clear predictable lives here.

That is how she differs from so many persons on this planet, she tries to control the

uncontrollable more so than others on this planet. Lots of people like adventure, stuff new, the

284
leaving of the comfort zone. Sorry, there ik a reason why it is called comfort zone, it is

comfortable here.

898.

80630 words, at eleven thirty-six on June twenty-five in two thousand and seventeen here. Life

passes us by here, life passed her by here.

899.

And still pretty hot here.

900.

Nine hundred lil parts, lil scenes. In three books, though there still are twenty thousand words

awaiting to be jotted down here.

901.

She wrote some two thousand words already here, not bad, not bad at all. If she keeps at this, she

might have some ten thousand words, once Columbo rolls in at eight in the eve here.

902.

There was this scene in MAX PERKINS EDITOR OF GENIUS that she always remembers.

Apparently, (so the story goes,), Thomas Wolfe was roaming the city near his apartment,

somewhere near what is nowadays Hells Kitchen and he was all drunk and yelling or singing, I

wrote ten thousand words today, I wrote ten thousand words today. The police came and told

him not to disturb people who sleep at three in the morning. Maybe the place was a different one,

somewhere behind Bergdorf Goodman, somewhere in the streets behind the apple-store that is

285
open twenty four hours per day. The one that has glasswalls that were made in Germany and then

shipped to New York City to be enclosing the store on the island of Manhattan here.

She will google that, do research about that particular store and its walls here. Or she will go out

and roam the hot city here. Anything is possible, the fridge cracks in the distance. The life of a

writer, not boring at all. We know how to keep ourselves entertained here, just like the song goes

here. She will find the song on you tube, it was a theme song from an old sitcom where the man

who played in Golden Girls was a father of two girls. An empty-nester doctor with a big dog.

Author here lives in tv-land, that is for sure that is for sure here. Can happen to the best of us,

why should people just be able to quote Shakespeare, the rest of us will quote pop culture. And

write long wordy verbose tomes on that here.

903.

80908 here. Write on yup write on here. Her back starts to hurt, there is a sharp hit in the right

corner of her back, next to the neck. Obviously, she is righthanded and she is overexerting her

right arm here. Even if the keys are not typewriter keys but flat little squares here.

904.

It is by now one and fourteen here. She was out, drove thru the sun seeping down onto the city

here. Not a good idea, it is just plain hot here in the car. She opens both windows in the front so

that the breeze will cool her down. Which is basically an effort that is in vain. Deheating to no

avail or something here.

The mall is cool, though, people running around here. Everywhere sales. The Lord and Taylor

part of the department store here. New York in Vancouver here.

286
The brisk walk to the grocery place by the new Valentino perfume. A bottle that is housed inside

of a vitrine here. An opaque container which is interesting, usually those perfume bottles are

made out of glass and look like they are made out of glass. This one looks as if it is made out of

cardboard. Autor ponders, she did not even know that Valentino makes perfume here. They

usually make clothes with little vs thereon here.

Inside of the mal, there is this secret garden thingie, really pretty. Versailles inside of the mall.

You can win a trip for two to Paris if you put your name down on the paper that will be in the

glass bowl. Raffle, somebody will be the happy winner here. Paris, huh. You have to make time

for that, seems, everybody has different plans here. If she would win it, she would just go by

herself and have coffee in those outdoor bistros near St. Germain de Pres. Or wherever else they

do the life en francais over there. Her writing sucks, what does her last sentence even mean here?

905.

81321 here. She went thru parts of the grocery place which was pleasantly cool here. Ice-cream

poutine pizza pops chocolate, the caramel kind. The woman behind the counter is named Ditty

according to her name tag. Which should be short for something, a longer East Indian name.

Author cannot bring herself to ask her, she looks as if she would shout back a snarky repartee.

Isnt it enough, that I, a future highly educated whatever, have to work as a cashier, now I have

to dispense additional info to stupid persons as you are here. The youth and what they say here.

Author had enough of talking to total strangers, you never know how they will react here.

906.

On the telly, Two and a Half Men and all the laugh tracks one can stomach here.

907.

287
Car 54 - Where are you? This is the black and white show at three thirty-one at night, the night

between Sunday and Monday at a time when a heatwave is doing its thing here. Portland is one

hundred degrees, so we are actually better off here up the coast. She is getting ready to go for a

stint to New York City, on the other hand she has to water the plants here. So she will stay put,

water plants and wait for the heatwave to subside here.

When was the Car 54 show filmed? Before her time here?

Her writing sucks, especially if you do this at three and a half in the morn when u have slept a

mere two hours and cannot sleep anymore because of said heatwave here.

908.

81616.

909.

June 26.

910.

It is pretty good down here, not that hot. Pleasantly cool. Her writing is all about what is on the

telly and what they serve at the coffee place. No plot as of yet but that will come later here.

911.

So it is a scorcher, so much is clear here. It is actually the headine of the local newspaper.

SCORCHER. In bold letters plastered over the title page here. She can see it in the newspaper

stand thingie, the little cube where all the free newspapers are stored in. Scorcher, huh. The

newspaper cube is on West Boulevard and first she just reads the corcher, after she walks some

more steps she deduces that it read scorcher here. The streets are desolate first thing in the

288
morn, every now and then it is the sound of a bike coming, the sound of the rubber wheel against

the asphalt of the road here. She could take the bus downtown or she could head back home and

do her writings. This time it is the coffee place on Forty-first, there are two women behind the

counter and they are not as versed in her order as the ones on Arbutus. The coffee tastes good

and the banana loaf has too many walnuts in it, coarsely chopped. They changed the recipe,

made the walnut chunks bigger. She ponders if they are cut by hand or by some kind of machine

here. It is hot hot hot hot here in this city.

912.

81815. Eight one eight one five. June 26 and a lotta heat here.

913.

Six and fifty-three in the morning of a Monday here.

914.

Six and fifty-nine in the AM. The city is waking up here.

915.

81907. She will go and fetch the bus down town. She can go to the gym and come back in time

to see King of Queens here. And write about it here. About the people on the bus et.al.

916.

Some more words fast, some fifty or so and we will go out after that. We need to have a round

number, 82000, makes us happy here, there is a feel of accomplishment once you know that you

have reached a certain hurdle, a certain Everest. A certain number here. Three more words.

82000 it is, it is here.

289
917.

Pick up where u left off one hour ago. She is not quite sure if that is correct, was it really a mere

one hour since she left her computer here. She went downtown and came back, that must have

taken more than an hour here. Seems, the machines CAN be wrong here.

Watching the people on the bus. Two women are sleeping. The bus does that to yer here. It is

eight and fifty-seven in the AM. The weight in the Y on Burrard was not good, gotta lose some

serious poundage here.

918.

82102.

919.

Pick up where u left off 2 hours ago. That sounds about right, she was online but not writing.

And the telly was singing its songs. We had ice cream and pizza pop and Mexican wrap. Way

too much food if u want to lose weight here. She now has to construct the calorie deficit by

walking. Or some other more vigorous exercise here. Running? On the telly, the DNA

diagnostics show. Paternity court here.

920.

Writing, huh. Writers block is ah so palpable.

921.

82211.

922.

290
Eleven eighteen. Next to noon here.

923.

Three hours ago she left the typing machine here. She could venture out into the real world,

observe, digest what she saw and then throw it out onto the keyboard. There might be indigestion

though, if she is outside she just has to rush home here to type this up. To type up anything here.

Maybe that is why Emily just said on the third floor of a house in Amherst, that is why she

closed the door and never came out, it was all about the poems that were waiting up to be written

here. A writerly FOMO. Ms. Dickenson, we do not really know the whole story, it is all a myth

anyways. The woman the myth.

And it is preposterous to attach oneself to Emily Dickenson anyways here. It would be better if

lots of persons did what she does here, writing in the same way, in the same subgenre. The

subgenre that has no name as of yet, here.

She scours the web, ended up watching this musical film about the subway in New York City.

You just want to run out and look at strangers on the bus so that you can rush home and write

about that. But we said that already here or something of that kind.

With writing, it is all about new ideas, about not repeating oneself. That is why stories are

fascinating to writers, you can tell the same story and just change the name of the protagonist. It

is not the same story, that happened to Cybil, not to John.

She ponders why she chose those two names here. And btw, that is why we do not write stories

here, the first obstacle, the naming of the fictional characters is too much for author here. Writing

about people that you see in a coffee house, that seems doable, the person you describe stays

anonymous. The barista, that can be anybarista. You just describe the movement, the motion of a

291
person, her hair, his eyes, that kind of thing. The exterior things, the stuff anybody can see. That

is how you recreate a figure and the reader might recognize herself.

She just listened to this writer that she has never heard of, how he tells people how to construct a

story. What was interesting was that he used the feminine pronoun, every person is a she. Author

here does that too sometimes but not all the time here. One more problem, what do you do when

using the English language? Is everybody a he or a she here? And what does it say about the

writer? Might one lose a reader or win a reader. It is all about strategizing, how do you grip a

reader and do not lose him, or well, her here.

Writing is tough, let us just agree on this here, because it is after all a journey into the unknown

here.

And we have quite a heap of words here, time to get out into the real world, time to purchase a

snickerdoodle cookie at the corner bakery here.

She was doing research about books that are titled Snickerdoodle, apparently there are some,

cookbooks, childrens books. She ponders if one can name a book with a title that is already

taken here. Is there something like copyright, like patent? Or can one name a literary piece

whatever one wants. Are all the names in the public domain? Like baby names, they are all there

for the taking. You can name your baby whatever u want, though there too r some restrictions.

Can u name ur book whatever u want?

82789 words, the news outta Chicago on the telly, wrap this up here and wrap this up here.

924.

292
She penned some 1400 words here. Would be better to type up ten thousand whole words here.

Anyhoo, on the telly, Big Bang here. On and off she watches what is on the telly. An episode of

Two Broke Girls or more so the last ten minutes or so here. The cupcake business dream. A

scene about sexual harassment. Laugh tracks. And now an ad for Mazda here. Driving matters,

apparently.

82821.

925.

Four oh five. In the afternoon here. Outside the greenery and the illuminated leaves here. The

blobs of illumination. Little colorful blocks here. There are lots of ways to describe that. To

describe the visual, stuff you see here. 82933.

926.

Four oh eight here.

927.

Her writing has to be more structured. Writing for three hours in the morning, writing for three

hours in the afternoon. She has to use an egg timer.

928.

82961.

929.

Writers block. She feels nauseated. Must be all that ice cream, all that perogy pizza poppy food

here.

293
On the telly, Sheldon Cooper who will teach Howard Wolowitz.

There is a study out of the University of Minnesota that actually says that messiness is good. It

has its benefits here. Makes u think creative. Ah, whatev here.

82999 words.

930.

83031. She has to check out and to check in in order to activate the wordcount here.

931.

So let us talk a tad about the submission process here. The landing of a contract to publish. Book

deal. How does this really work here?

Author starts up a discussion and then feels like not going on here. Well, not necessarily the way

that good authors do stuff here. You have to commit to discussing something, not stop cold here.

She sent out a query letter to an agency in Denver and then she sent out one to an agency in nyc.

Yup, that is how it is how it is here. The first mail was not delivered, failure of delivering.

Something like that. It just bounced right back here.

932.

It is way too hot in here. Better to walk down to the donut place. Seems that the street is colder

than the inside of her place here. There is a slight breeze, there is no breeze inside here.

933.

Watching Law and Order, though she thought it is called LA Law. Yup, this is what we do when

not writing here. The one actress looks like Sharon Stone.

294
934.

Another movie. After Modern Famiy here. Outside, the end of the day here.

935.

8255, sorry, 83255. She could still go down to the coffee place. It is melancholic at this time of

the day. It has this weird feel of nowhere land, silentness in front of closing time. No customers

or hardly any. It is still bright outside, so the romantic feel is not quite there. The drama is

somehow on cold ice, suspended. Like a song that does not quite make it. Not The House of the

Rising Sun but The Letter. Though both songs are equally good, but one stays with us longer and

nobody knows why here. Dramatic situations and not so dramatic ones. The coffee place at this

time of the day is just deserted, just what they call in German trostlos.

936.

83396. Seven ten. June 26. 2017. Numbers that populate this text here. It is hot in this city here.

937.

Maybe she will finish this at a smaller number. Less than 100 000 words. The quality will still be

the same. The story will just teeter out here. There is no plot anyways, no story arc. It is just a

story without ups and downs. A solid line. Nothing happening here except for the passing of

time. Eventless time. Breathe-in breathe-out.

938.

What constitutes literature? Stuff that is bound between two covers. A physical beginning, a

physical end here. Nowadays words are stored digitally, online. You cannot bind those words

and store them on shelves. There is no smell of old books. The end of an era.

295
939.

Some fast words before the day lets out here. The greenery without lights, a sobered-up greenery.

The bark is illuminated, but a mere short part of it. It is really seriously getting near to night time

here.

940.

83535.

941.

She ponders if she should still feed some words to this machine here. There is nothing to say,

really. Nothing left to tell. She has 83537, as said before, the wordcount is not exact here. Seems

once you hit high numbers of words, the software balks and does its own thing. WORD erratic

here.

Outside it is pretty dark though not pitch dark yet. Still some sky, white against the dark trees.

Looks like lace.

Her words ah her words here.

On the telly, an ad for tires.

942.

83604 at nine forty-six here.

943.

The sprinkler went off, drenched her. Later she took a different route than she usually does. Later

she sits at the typer and mentions that. Certain very short hiccups that make her change her

296
routine. Short interruptions. That set yer off. to write about the unpredictable. Not a plot but there

is something to be said about introducing the element of surprise into an otherwise grey text

here. Stylistic considerations, they usually cannot really be planned, the words feed upon each

other. That is what makes them flow or not flow. Author here still has no plot, the plot is the life

of the writer. The fascination with the wordcount. We are losing it here, that is for sure.

In the morn, the coffee place she usually is in was closed. It was then up to forty-first, she parked

behind a police car. Without putting a quarter in the park-o-meter. Which seems to be fine, the

cops are inside having their coffee and chatting here.

For some reason, the street is very awake at six in the morn. High traffic. She ponders if it is

always like that and she never noticed it before here. There is so much you do not notice. If you

only open your eyes, you will see the unfamiliar in the familiar. Boy, is she full of platitudes,

dispensing said platitudes seems to be her thing on this fine Tuesday here. Seems, it will be

cooler today, though the sun is out already, quite palpable here. It is six and twenty-nine here on

the wet coast, she has 83 and some six hundred words here.

944.

A mere half page, that is not much here. Literature penned by yours truly here. The day before

she submitted a short piece, some mere 20 words to a literary mag slash rag in Brooklyn. It is

pretty good, some ditty about eyeglasses, they might like it and print it. Or reject it. It is not the

strongest piece, it could be stronger. Worded stronger. A weak piece. Actually, even when it is

weak it is still strong enough. Boy, her inner critic sucks here.

945.

297
She could go down town, downtown is always the best in the early morning. The people on the

bus are all dressed up in their Sunday gear, the people who work in downtown are Sunday gear

people during the workweek. Those are the ones who wear funny costumes on the weekends

here. Yup, we should write about that, make snarky comments on the flow of things, state of

things here. She read this interview with the author she had never heard of, the one who said that

he tried to make a name for himself with observational humor. Once he was established he

followed that of with a historical novel, serious stuff, things that he likes to write about but

where there is no market for it. He was good at strategizing his career. With art it is like that, if u

do not want to end up in the garret you have to lie deceive, steal. Art is very unpredictable, there

will not be takers if there is no niche. Or you have to create that niche. Or see a niche and slip

into it. Yup, writing, it is all marketing 101 here. Maybe her book is more about how to survive

in todays economy, a blueprint t for fiscal insolvency. She has no clue what the word insolvency

means, but it sounds good here. Very nonfictional, very academic. Scholarly in a weird way,

academia that talks about the real world. How to make money how to spend money how to hold

on to money here. The right kind of planning is everything, economics as ballet, as dance. To

balance the, well, balance sheet here. Her words are giving out, she is not quite sure if the reader

will understand what we are talking about here. By likening fiscal something to a dance here.

The fridge is starting up its songs, it is half past six on a Monday morn, make that Tuesday here.

Somehow, the day seems to be in full swing, somedays are like that, you wake up, all bright-

eyed, all ready to tackle the world here. Though in her case the world, her world, is so very

small, it is just one woman and her type writer, in a messy apartment here. She took that sentence

right out of Seinfeld, apparently writing for her is just talking passages she overheard while

watching Seinfeld and rearranging them. They say you should read a lot and then write, she here

298
watches constantly what is on the telly and then spouts it back onto the paper, the keyboard the

monitor here. Watching visuals and turning that into words here. Letting your mind go blank and

then doing the writing thingie here. Outside the sprinklers are quite noisy quite noisy here.

Something crackles in the distance, maybe in the wall here. Spooky, spooky while the sun is

shining bright on the city here. She might go to the airport, there is something to be said about

watching people rush you by to catch a flight to places like New York or Amsterdam here. The

knowing that the world is small here, yay ah yay here. So, her poetic language is weird and

strange, that is how it is supposed to be, that is what apparently makes it poetic. She feels like

boozing, she always feels like that. And now we gotta stop and spellcheck spellcheck here. Two

pages seem to be done, well, some more lines and we are there are there here. The obligatory two

pages, everything after that is extra here.

84586, she is at the bottom of page 299. Three hundred pages, double-spaced, a text that was not

there before. A totally new text that will be published and bound or that will rot online in some

garret. An online chamber under the attic just right out of a painting by Carl Spitzweg here.

946.

It is six and fifty-three in the ey em here, the lights on the greenery are hopeful and wishy washy,

at this time of the day there are no strong shadows, no strong contrasts, nothing to tell the troops

about here. Nothing to write poetry on, just a too bla lightening of the greenery outside here. She

puts together words at random, she ponders why she chose writing and if that even was a good

choice here. The cooped-up-ness will do her in, the typewriter-thingie is so mechanical. Using a

pencil when writing, so much more organic, so much more natural here. More physical even

here.

299
947.

Yup, definitely two pages, even some more, half a page extra here. On this fine day, a Tuesday

in late June of two thousand and seventeen here.

948.

84774 words.

949.

The wordcount device was stalling, that is why she suddenly out of nowhere has so many new

words, such a big number here. Sometimes the counting of the words is automatic, but

apparently that feature is working better when there is a small amount of words to be counted.

Apparently, yup, apparently here.

950.

Seven eleven, one hour of solid writing here. Well, give or take some. She started this after six.

We are losing count here. An egg timer would come in handy, if she can time herself, how many

words per minute here. A chronometer, a stopwatch, Fitbit. Count ten thousand steps, count ten

thousand words here. Everything we do is counted for, every second. Life in increments, portions

of living. Precise moments, the illusion of accuracy, precision here.

951.

She still should write some more here. Writing makes her feel all tingly inside, she is not quite

sure if that is the interaction with the machine or the sheer sitting still here. The compressed

energy, pent-up emotions here. The being weirdly contorted in front of the typer. Long distance

drivers must feel like that, you have to change your physical position every now and then here.

300
Her observations vis--vis writing and driving, ah, whatever. Time to rush out and meet people,

fresh air. That kind of thing, being pressed like a sardine into a commuter train, staring in front

of oneself, avoiding looking at others here. That is what makes you come alive, the life in the

urban jungle here. When you know that you are merely a number, it is a very different existence

than the life of a writer where you and only you make the decisions, where you are omnipotent,

where you can fashion any words you want here. You can pick and choose, you and only you are

in total control here. Yup, something like that, something of that kind here. Coherence is

overrated we can only guess with the language. Try to tap at reality, slowly, stammeringly,

stuntedly here.

And we have some 85116, it is 7:26, it is June 27 in 2017 here on the west coast, yay here, yay

here.

952.

She needs two hundred words more, then she will have penned two thousand words. Two

thousand words in two hours. Author has this friend of hers who runs while using an app called

Stavia, apparently the app counts how long the distance is that she runs. How many kilometers.

So one can exactly know the number of kilometers, though not the number of steps. Apparently

that app is different from the app that counts steps. But either way these devices put a number to

the things we do with our lives. Just like author here paces her life with words, the number of

words here. You will get the feel of accomplishment if you can look back and say that this is

how many words I wrote how many steps I logged in, how many meters I ran. The counting of

what we do, the exact number. In her case it is about literature about poetry about creating

something that cannot be measured should not be measured in numbers here. You cannot

measure art, because every viewer will see something differently. But we have literary critics,

301
reviewers they measure weather your stuff is good, it is either nay or yay, thumbs up or thumbs

down, scathing review or over the top lauding here. You might have written an inordinate

number of words but they still might stink. Usually a monumental text will be simply chided as

being too verbose here. Say it in two words, give us the elevator pitch here. Between the first and

the tenth storey of a building. Anyhoo, time to catch the bus, time to wrap this up here.

953.

Maybe one hundred more words, then this will be some two thousand words in two hours here.

She then can go down to the coffee place and look at the people. Observe what they are up to,

not that it even matters here. Why to talk about what the inhabitants of this planet are up to here.

Seven billion creatures, and that is counting merely the humans. Some more words here ah some

more words.

954.

She looks at the numbers again, she has 1800 words in two hours. Or maybe one hour and a half.

Her measurings do have so many faults here. The errors ah the errors here.

955.

Round numbers are the best, one can stomach those. 2000 words, two hours. Though technically

two hours would be 120 minutes. How many words per minute would that be? We want

everything to be clear and overseeable, nicely ordered, nicely, neatly compartmentalized. Not

messy and chaotic here.

956.

302
85569. At 7:54. Two thousand words not quite. Numbers and words. Measuring the amount of

words here. Why do we do that, what is the history of doing that? How many words in a text? In

school, they give you assignments. This is how many words the essay should be. Anyhoo, she

really thinks that she overanalyzed something that basically cannot be analyzed here. Time to get

out, fresh air, a bus a train. Anything that is in motion here, that takes her to the places in the city

here. 85659, the wordcount icon is doing its thing and totally confusing the hapless writer here.

Seven fifty-eight. Stop doing this, stop measuring everything here. It is getting way to obsessive

even for writing, even for lyricism, for poetry here. Gotta get out of here gotta get outta here.

957.

The obsessions of writing, the obsessions of the writer here.

958.

8:02 AM, June 27, 2017, 85725 words here. The sun is shining ah the sun is shining here.

959.

Nine and fifty-five. A walk thru the neighborhood, the weather is fresh, luckily the heat wave

passed her by, her city by here. A woman is walking on the other side of the street, in front of the

suburban houses. She is dressed in black and is wearing one of those hats with a big visor, a dark

tinted but still translucent visor. She does not want sunrays to get on her face, she does take

precautions for being all wrinkled up here. The woman walks all of the streets, by houses.

Author here runs into her several times while she is on her own walk, walking thru all the streets,

just so that you move. There is no end, no goal, it is just walking in circles. The equivalence of a

stationary bike. Just to move the muscles here.

303
And now she is watching Master Chef Canada. She does the suburban thingie here, quite good.

The boredom of suburbia, and you though there is nothing happening here.

At the top of page 303 here.

960.

85908. Ten in the morn here.

961.

A man shows how to make a desert, something with berries here. Bread pudding and he uses a

berry port.

962.

Now he shows the end result here.

963.

A summer berry pudding here. Berry root or grated berry licorice on the cream. He is wearing a

white chef uniform, his voice has a stalted intonation. A certain aura of a certain chef. A serious

chef, he calls his cooking trick international. You think that he is full of cooking secrets that he

just shares with you the viewer. A man of mystery in cooking. This is so different from a world

of drive-thrus and Big Macs. Though it is obviously the flipside of the same coin here. Cooking

for the masses versus cooking for the select few here. How do u spell presumtiousness.

964.

Koreatown in LA. This is a show called Unique Eats. It is fantastic, such an interesting movie.

Move over, Doctor Schiwago. Food channel is where its at.

304
965.

You have to venture out instead of sitting here and looking at different foods on a screen. She

lives in food heaven here. The passive binge-watching will do her in, she will suddenly dissolve

and fall to the ground, cringing, collapsing, convulsing. Too much tv will do yer in, every time

here.

She had ice cream and a Mexican wrap, and it is only half past ten. Wonder why we have a

tummy ache here. The excesses that you go thru when u are a writer, it is all about your boring

occupation, the pushing down of squares with white capital letter in the upper left. If that is what

you do then you tend to overeat, tend to overwatch what is up on the telly. Anything to escape

boredom here. The predictability of typing up words here.

966.

She sneezes, might be a cold here. An impending one. That happens when the weather gets hot

and cold again here.

967.

The chef showed how to make a desert which is a layered tart thingie and he talks a lot about

how to fold the pastry cream, how to incorporate this and how to incorporate that. And now a

show about a place in Nashville. Before it was all about this place in Atlanta here. The images

are nice, so oversized, who ever looks at food this way? And everything is in color here. A

woman talking about food, then another one. The narrating of food, the stories of food. The

descriptions of food here. The poetics of food. The words they use to describe food here.

968.

305
Eating as artform, talking about food as artform, now there is a new twist here. How will we ever

lose weight here? How to wear jogging pants when there are shows about food on the telly here?

Something is amiss here.

969.

86394. 10:52. June 27.

970.

The cooking channel apparently is a spin-off of the food channel here. They now talk about

something called taco arabe. All these people talking about food and describing food. They all

look to the left of the screen, kind of diagonally here. They all have a happy smile while talking

on food. The food critics, the food reviewers. You tend to watch what is going on on the screen

and then you read thru the yelp reviews of those places here.

971.

A woman with a Jamaican accent in a baby blue shirt talks about baking and about crme tartar.

When did the other show end and this new one here start up? It is mindboggling here. The

woman is some kind of Nigella wanna be, they all are apparently. They all have funny accents

just like Nigella has. Apparently this all started with a woman named Julia Child and she too had

a funny way of speaking. So does Martha Stewart. The intonations, the way they talk

schoolmasterly about cooking. How to prepare stuff. As if they give a lecture to PhD students

that will write dissertations about how to prepare a hot dog here. How to squeeze the mustard on

the dog between the buns here. Anyhoo, we are losing it here, apparently ah, apparently here.

86399 words here, eleven oh six. There are always these ads for these wines called Naked.

306
972.

11:10 AM, 86636. She has about 3000 words here, that she started up since six here. Five hours

of writing and 3000 words here. She could have written more and could have written less here.

Soy sauce, the woman talks about soy sauce while cooking here and stirring stuff that makes

noise over the fire. Author here should go out and get ingredients and then assemble them and

wait for people to applaud here. Instead of doing the writing thingie where nobody will applaud

here.

973.

Eleven fifteen here.

974.

Two and twenty-six. Outside the sun in all its glory. There still is no plot to this text and there

obviously will not be one. You cannot start up a plot when you are basically thru the whole book.

This text is all about discussing how it feels to be a writer, it is the equivalent of a painter

painting her studio on canvas, an image of the studio.

On the telly, Two and a Half Men.

975.

An ad for mackadees. Lobster rolls at MacDonalds. They do not have them here, it is a New

England thingie. They have them over there for a limited time in summer. The ad is so very good

here.

976.

86800.

307
977.

Descriptions of different shades of green. And a tad red inside the green here. Laugh tracks on

the telly. The living room and different players, different actors. The kid when he was pretty

young. Now an ad for almonds. An ad for KFC. Seems at this time of the day all the ads are for

food. And now an ad for a steakhouse. An ad for a car. It is either food or cars.

86916.

978.

Two forty-two.

86921.

979.

An ad for Ikea. And still the story of Two and a Half men. Sitcom episodes are usually thirty

minutes long or maybe twenty-two minutes and the rest are commercials. And still another Ikea

ad, two in arrow here.

What to write about, ah, what to write about here? Some philosophical waxing about writing,

anyone here?

980.

Two fifty-six.

981.

86984. A walk around the neighborhood would be nice, the weather is just fine, not too hot and

not too cold here. No wetness, no rain. One can look at all the houses that basically all look the

308
same here. Houses and trees. Tree lined streets. Every now and then there is a house under

construction. One could walk up to the village and have a maple donut in the donut shoppe. Yup,

there are choices ah choices here. Opposite of the coffee house, on the other side of the street,

there is a store full of books, stuff that people wrote and got published. If she will play her cards

write, sorry, right, she too will be published. Have her books on the display table in that store

over there. Instead of just being online somewhere hovering in the cloud here. Anyhoo, still

writing still writing here. And now it is Two Broke Girls here. And laugh tracks that are very

eplosive here.

982.

87145.

983.

We could go downtown, look around, do people watching and then come home and write about

it. Should be more authentic then just sitting here and typing while listening in to the telly.

984.

An ad for pizza. It is dinnertime, well, not quite here. Some more words here, some more words

here. An ad for a car.

895.

87184. The story here is just stalling. If this was a real story it still would have parts where

nothing was happening here. She went thru this site called query tracker where people post the

answers that different literary agents gave their requests for representation. Seems everyone was

309
describing their books in terms like this: 97K paranormal mystery, 87k thriller, 74k whatever.

What exactly is paranormal, what does it even mean here?

896.

She should go out in order to describe a location different from the room with the green couch

and the telly. Should do this, should do that here. Should find a plot, should stumble upon a plot.

Being a writer is exhausting, especially when you do not know what you are doing here.

897.

87281.

898.

Three twenty-eight. If she was a painter or a sculptor, she would live her life in a messy studio.

At least when writing there is no mess. Just boredom in front of the computer here. Outside the

greenery seems to be even more illuminated here. Though one can sense that it is at the end of its

peak, the shades are getting longer here.

899.

We are next to having penned 3000 words, nah, make that 4000. There are no characters, there is

no plot, but that has to do here. Everything that this book isnt here. No genre book. Whatev.

900.

87440. 3:24. June 27. Just saying.

901.

On the telly, Caroline got fired from the diner here.

310
902.

Bureau of pizza. That is the name of the room in the pizza ad. Kind of funny here. An ad for

Toyota and there is a puppy on a lawn. Toyota dog days is what they are singing and author here

is not quite sure what it means. Apparently, it means that you will get a deal. The buying of a

Toyota will be less expensive than on the days that the dog days are over here. There is a sale

in the car dealership here.

903.

87543.

Seems, we have 4000 words here. Since six in the morn. In about ten hours. 4000 words are

produced in ten hours here. And we are typing basically with two fingers here.

904.

You have to sit in a room, a mostly dark room and type up your book and then resurface in the

world and try to sell the text. Should be doable. If you put in the hours, then there has to be a

sale. A sale of words to a publisher. How tough can it be here?

She is still following the story on the screen. Caroline has still not apologized to Han and neither

has Han. They both are standing their ground, nobody is giving in. It is an impasse. Now this is a

a story, a problem that will be resolved within twenty minutes, the time that an episode of a

sitcom usually takes as mentioned before here. A problem, two sides that do not say eye to eye

and the veering towards resolution here.

905.

311
And there we are, problem solved in twenty-two minues. This is how books work too, problem

solved in 100 000 K, whatever a K is here. Movies, problem solved in two hours. Paintings,

everything you can paint on a cnvas of a certain size, everything within the frame here.

906.

Big Bang. 4200 words in ten hours. Because now it is ten hours, now it is four in the afternoon.

The numbers she mentions are not that correct, they are sliding here. Outside the greenery with

sprinkles here.

907.

Publishing, readings, book signings. All the social stuff that words go thru. The accruements

here.

908.

One hour ago she was online writing here. Since then she had this potato that was a tad crumpled

up. Shed rather buy yellow fresh new potatoes, these russet ones do not come out very good out

of the microwave. Somebody bought a lot of russets, so we have to eat those and then buy new

ones here. Even with a lot of butter, the potato did not become good. Maybe vinegar would do

the trick and make it good here.

She just read this ditty online: 100 influencers in Brooklyn. She sent out the first ten pages of this

text to a young lit agent in nyc, the agency is somewhere between 8th and ninth avenue,. Author

is now following the agent and her twitter account. She will be part of this writing conference in

September in Brooklyn. That is why she ended up reading about influencers, if you go from link

to link you end up at certain places here. Author reads a lot about different bookstores, she reads

312
up about book culture, everything and anything here. Bookishness, it is more about reading,

about the world of books, not so much about reading here. Books as physical objects here. Texts

that have a life of their own here. Different from what is on on the telly here, the constant talking

outta Boston, it is the news here. The news at eight. Eight on the east coast, five here on the wet

coast.

Btw, these days there is the jazz fest going on, there is a free concert each and every day in town

on Hamilton here. At noon, we might go there one day. We can watch people and come back and

write about it. A dispatch outta downtown of this city here.

87822 words here. We started out with something like 83500, so we have now some 4300 new

words here. In eleven and a half hours here. The numbers are a tad too icky, not round enough.

909.

On the teller, a weather bunny. A male weather bunny in a dark suit that is a tad too big for him.

910.

A very young weather bunny here, fresh outta hi-skool.

911.

Five and thirty-seven here. Parts of the greenery area is shiny now, other parts are dark. She read

something by a writer who was describing her way of writing. It was different from the way we

write here. A tad different here. Everybody has her own way of doing things here. Obviously,

sitting inside and typing is not that good, it is depressing, it is stifling. On the telly they are

talking to the police commissioner of Boston. His is a familiar face, she has seen his face many

313
times before. His face reminds her of Uriah Heep here, a character in David Copperfield. He has

a slight lisp here and a quite pronounced Boston accent here.

912.

88187. At five and forty-three. Six to six. We started at six in the morn, we are now at six in the

eve. Twelve hours of writing here. Five thousand words or next to five thousand here. We need

some three hundred words more. Have to align them up here. The greenery is now really

dramatic, dark parts and illuminated parts, strong shadows, contrasts, even though there is one

color green, somehow the forms and shades are pretty dramatic. There is a strong breeze, wind,

storm, well, not quite, but the leaves move in strong unison, very substantial, sculpture like here.

On the telly, a woman talks about channel four outta Boston as if she is a cheerleader, as if she is

selling aluminum siding. You can hear the phoniness, it comes thru strongly here. Too sugary a

voice, too sugary a tone her. The intonation is all wrong here, even for broadcasting.

913.

And still some more words, any words here.

914.

88470. Some thirty words more and then we really are at five thousand words that have been

written in twelve hours here. You did good, apparently. Five thousand words in one day here.

She has written eleven thousand in one day, last November or so here.

915.

So funny, she had her glasses on her head and was looking for them. It does not just happen in

the movies, it happens in real life here. On the telly, Modern Family, pretty funny, it always is.

314
We have so many words here, well, 5000 in 12 hours, it would have been better if it was 6000

words in twelve hours, two hours for one thousand words. If it is overseeable, in clear chunks,

the writing seems to be better, there is order, regimentedness. Words as soldiers here, very linear,

clear lines. But words are messy, stories are messy here. They refer to real life, they are new

realities. But there is something angular about books, they are little rectangles, the pages have

clear lines, the pages are papers at right angles here. There is something comforting about life in

a little box, because that is how a book looks anyways here. Anyhoo, we have 88669 here.

916.

Pick up where you left off nine minutes ago. Sitting and typing this up here, we can finish the

book in two days here and then this is done and we can print it all out and edit it in one big

whoosh. She is not quite sure what she will do with the many ANYHOOS in the story, in this

text here. Anyhow, sounds weird, anyhoo is much more straightforward. Then she uses a lot of

THRU and she always refers to the television as the TELLY. These are slang words and she is

not quite sure if publishers are ok with that. Besides her punctuation is quite idiosyncratic here.

917.

88674. 6:47.

918.

The funny thing was while she was editing her sentence about anyhoo versus anyhow, the actor

on Modern Family used the word anyhoo. Funny coincidence, nest-ce pas?

919.

88789.

315
920.

Some more words here some more words here. We can drive this up, maybe even finish it in one

sitting, then will come long long days of rewriting editing and reading thru ones own words

here. Which is always annoying here, always creepy. Because it is a rerun , a repeat. On the telly,

once more Two Broke Girls, still another episode here. Outside the greenery is now pale in

places, it has a totally different feel. The tone is so different, so pale. Pastel. Instead of the stark

green that was there before. Anyhoo, writing here and writing here.

921.

To die by writing, that is how stenographers must feel, typists in the typing pool. She is not quite

sure if they still exist, offices with people who type.

922.

88949 here.

923.

Outside, the afternoon suburban walkers. Every now and then one can see them from here. They

march by, usually in pairs. These are not the dogwalkers of the neighborhood and not the runners

here. She can go on to the coffee place, have a flat white and soak in the atmosphere. It seems

that the closing time hour on Tuesdays is different from the one on Mondays, mainly because the

weather is different than the day before. Everything is more shiny and definitely not as hot as it

was the day before. More optimistic, more on the happy side here.

924.

316
Maybe there is something to be said for failure. For writing up books that always get rejected.

You know it is a sure thing, you query and they reject. Maybe if it was any different it would be

weird. Weird to be published, weird to have ur books in bookstores the world over. Have total

strangers read ur books, and btw, here is another thing we write ur instead of your here.

So this is what we do here, write long verbose ditties that go on forever. Author ponders, what

exactly is a ditty? Can ditties be long or is it an oxmoron. There is a certain charm in oxymorons,

the nonsensical element here. And the songs of the laugh tracks are deafening deafening here.

925.

89175 here. It is eight in the eve, Don Lemon or Anderson Cooper here. A man answers the

question put to him here. The Russian connection, that is what this is about, yup, it is Don

Lemon, we know because the man says this is how it is, Don. So even if you do not look at the

screen you can deduce what is going on here. On the telly. On CNN here. So fourteen hours for

six thousand words here, well, a tad less than the whole six thousand here. Now Trump talking,

he has lost weight here. He seems frazzled and confused, ever since he won the election here. It

hit him outta left field here.

926.

Eight oh six here. The Seinfeld episode, the last one. The marble rye lady testifies here. Now the

virgin, Marla.

927.

89320.

928.

317
Now the soup nazi.

929.

89327.

921.

An ad for Sears. We thought that Sears was not anymore here.

The problem with writing is that if writers block hits you do not know what to do. You can just

mechanically type, but is kind of feels weird here. Creative blanks here.

Gotta still heap some words onto the keyboard here. Until we have 6000 words, which is very

good for one day here.

922.

89397. 8:19. June 29.

921.

The end of the episode. Then verdict is out. It will be read here.

922.

All rise. Guilty.

923.

And the gavel comes down.

924.

Oh - and by the way, they are real and they are spectacular.

318
925.

Sixty more words here. The greenery outside, the day is letting out. One can see that there is

some lighting somewhere, in the distance. More a hint of light, the impending sundown is so

palpable here. The day that is coming to an end here. There still will be other days to write this

up here. 89497.

926.

An ad for a grocery store. A chain that does not exist here on the west coast.

927.

She could take a run for it and drive this up to 90000. A novel that is ninety thousand words

long. She ponders, can she call this a novel, yeah, why not here. A play on the novel theme.

Another Seinfeld episode is starting up here.

928.

An ad for Burger King. All she does is describe what is on the telly. It is not enough, is it?

929.

Hints of writers block here. Is it too late to get out and take the train to the airport and watch the

airplanes fly away and fly in. Landing and departing here. It will be dark once she is there which

makes it even more dramatic.

930.

Kramer comes in, more like bursting in here.

931.

319
89641.

932.

The nipple. It is that episode. And there are the laugh tracks. Kramer at Calvin Kleins.

933.

Sorry, the episode is called THE PICK.

934.

89660. She cannot write anymore, seems, it is physically impossible. There are just so many

hours one can sit contorted without your back giving out here.

935.

89696 words here, and we have 89700 and then some here.

936.

Five thousand words in one sitting and still some other five words in another sitting and then

some five hundred words in still another sitting. Three sittings of various lengths all thru the day,

a Wednesday in late June here. The punctuation marks in place, the spellings in place. She will

do that, she can do that. Produce the tenth of a book in one day. After toiling on the other nine

percent or so for four months. Though not technically all of four months. This started up in

March but not at the beginning, at about the seventeenth of March. So we have three whole

months and one part of a month here. She has to look at her ledger here. A ledger apparently is

some kind of accounting book, where you write in numbers, dates. A clear account where you

document everything you do. A dateline here. She is looking for the right word to describe this,

there is none, a logbook, maybe. A daytimer. A calendar. Your diary entries, all with the exact

320
dates here. This is where the problem lies, we never ever find the right words here. That is why

we are able to use so many words, that many words here. We try to describe something and use

different sentences to describe the same thing here. One of the sentences has to make sense to the

reader and the problem is that each and every reader is different. So you have to try to transcribe

what you mean with different approaches. One of them will stick, one of those approaches will

paint exactly the picture you want to convey here. But because everyone is different, hears things

differently there is no one size fits all. You have to say what you mean in different versions. That

way you make sure that as many persons as possible will somehow understand what you are

talking about here. So the problem of a writer is that she is not able to convey her theme

concisely in a short formulaic way. Thus, she has to use flowery language here. Say the same

thing again and again, only with differing words here.

Author ponders half of her writing is about clarifying to herself what it is that she is doing here.

And how she does it. She comes from a world of gallery reports and artist statements. This is

what you do in a visual arts school. You then want to write a novel which is pure fiction. The

construct of people that do not really exist. There are problems when doing that, more so

technical problems than problems of the how and why. She ponders, the how and why and

technical, are those not the same thing here? Maybe she should not get that philosophical, she

seems not to be that good at that here. Logical inconsistencies are easy to see by a reader here.

Anyhoo, be that as it may, she is listening in to the chirping of the birds in the distance here. She

is typing at the kitchen table which is not that good here. The monitor is running on battery

power, well, the computer is. The lighting of the monitor is off, it is much brighter when the

laptop is connected to the outlet. When the laptop is plugged in here. Her seat is different than

when she sits in the room with the green couch. She ponders if she should just take this to the

321
coffee house and do her writings over there. The many people will inspire her, she will be able to

type up much more words here. She will look at people, listen in to people and then type faster

here. She will be able to do that, the only problem is that she has to pack this up once more and

leave for that place here. The coffee house ah the coffee house, usually she just describes it from

memory and not by sitting in there and looking at people. She does not take physical notes when

she is there, she sometimes takes pictures with her old i-fone and then looks at them to remind

herself what this was all about here. She cannot make up her mind here about how to proceed,

how to do this here. There is no right and no wrong, they say, no right strategizing and no wrong

one. You just have to put in the work here.

Anyhoo, she was in downtown, left home at six and was back at seven. Caught the bus, had

coffee in the coffee place near the Canada Line station. A man was behind the counter, a young

lad with a very pronounced German accent. He talked to the customer, he had funny hair. All in

his face kind of hair. Not well combed, he looked a tad like a former Beatle, that kind of hair. He

was very happy, very outgoing. That happens to yer when you come from the other side of the

world and you have a work permit. Apparently, all these people are allowed to work here, they

are on some kind of gap year or something. They are allowed to work in retail, they can fix

beverages here. And then they can go back to their respective countries and start their work lives

over there. Or study. Or write here.

The city is interesting at this time of the day. It is still awakening here. On the bus, there is a

hobo perched in the corner, he is all asleep, all asleep here. Sleeping here. Author ponders how

to use the language in the right way, poetic, accurately. How can you be a poet and use exacting

language as if you are describing aluminum siding. In this book she writes a lot about aluminum

322
siding and she is not even quite sure what aluminum siding is here. She wikipediaed it, but still,

the wiki-entries are conflicting, ha-ha, they always are here.

937.

We have some more words here, she could look up the wordcount, she needs a magnifying glass

though to decipher what the so very tiny icon says. The number is way too small for the naked

eye here. Her eyesight ah her eyesight here. Outside there is greenery and there are flowers in

red, a slightly purple red. A red leaning towards blue, tints of blue in that kind of red here. On the

counter, there is this honey container, honey bottle. The honey is very shiny, glistening in a dark

orange brown red kind of color. Dark colored honey here. Author describes different shiny

surfaces, the doorknob, the door handle, the golden one that reflects the lights here. She writes

about color and she writes about sound here. The day before she read about this one writer and

that he apparently managed to describe not merely the visual but sounds, smells, the like here.

Author is not quite sure how he was any different than any other writer here. The people who

escribe other writings are kind of weird, they characterize one persons way of writing in a

certain very subjective way here.

Anyhoo, we were still talking about the journey out into downtown, what we saw and what we

did not see here. Two bus rides, lots of people that were coming onto the bus, a group of

Mexican exchange students or tourists, maybe they were Argentinian, they sure were not

Portuguese. They spoke Spanish or something like that here.

You see the world in Vancouver, you do not need to go anywhere else. Everybody is from

somewhere here in this city.

323
She has some 90 thousand words, this much she can see, even if she does not decipher the exact

number here. This means that we need some ten thousand more here. Her right hand is starting to

act up from all of this typing here, for some weird reason it is the part where the knuckle hits the

ring finger and the pinky, somehow that is so weird, so weird here. Her neck is hurting too.

These are all parts that are not exactly the ones that are pressing against the machine here, the

only parts that are pressing are the two tops of the middle fingers of both hands here. So why are

other parts of the body getting exhausted here? How does this work anatomically? Thomas

Wolfe would write while standing up, on the back of a refrigerator. There are photos that show

him do that, the persona of a writer, his or her idiosyncrasies. The myth of the writer, the

boozing, that kind of thing. The stuff that writers do when they are not writing here. Who starts

up, makes up all those stories here? The marketers the ones that will foot the bill for the

publishing. Walt Whitman self-published, so did Mark Twain, they thus can control what is told

about them to the public. Author ponders, there was this dissertation by a woman in Germany

who wrote about the authors photo, she must have mentioned that before right in this text here.

But it is worth repeating, the impact that the picture has on constructing a certain image of a

writer of words. The person who slings words just as she would sling drinks behind the counter

in a seedy bar in the worst part of town here. Something like that, something lof that kind here.

Author here types feverishly, she will go in at a later date and iron out all the glitches

here. As much as she can, as much as she wants here. Sometimes it is beneficial to omit a

comma, you say more by doing that, you kind of use the visual to transcribe the spoken words

and by putting commas in or leaving them out, you kind of underline what you think is

important, how the sentence whojld be rfead and what the meaning should be, these pretzels are

324
making me thirsty, that kind of thought here. The meaning of the sentence shifts if you put the

stress on PRETZEL or on THESE here.

938.

She is now down here in the coffee house that she usually is in. Though today it is all about

typing up what u see here. Which is ah so weird here. To have a peppermint tea and to sit in the

corner where the light is not good enough. A man sings on the overhead, another one looks at his

phone and he sips something thru a straw, some cold drink at eight thirteen in the morn. He has

his back to the window. Weird, huh strange. He coughs. People tend to act weird, they must all

be serial killers. If they do not act in a certain predictable way, then it follows that What

behavior is suspicious and what is normal? Who knows here. There are a man and a woman

behind her, the man wears something beige. There is a woman leaving this place, she is wearing

something orange and a bag over her shoulder, a big bag, she can hold parts of it with her elbow.

Author takes glances at people and then types up what she saw. She does not have to do that with

the audio, she can hear that while looking down onto her keyboard here. The keyboard looks so

very different here, much more artsy. The shine is so different, the reflections on the keys. All

matte, all opaque. Very pretty. Different shades of matte. There is a whiteness in the black, a

shiny one, though reluctant. The serial killer is making noise with his straw. He grabs his keys

and leaves. He was actually quite a regular guy in regular grey shirt, dark. He holds the door for

the lady in black who comes in here. He is very young, so that is why he has a cold drink at eight

thirteen in the morn. Or he could have flown in from somewhere lese a studying stint in London,

he is back home for the summer holidays and his time is all out of whack, it is midnite for him

here. Author ponders, see, it is easy to make up personas for people, fictional characters. Are we

325
not all fictional, do we even know what somebody else is thinking here. The singer on the

overhead is singing, very softly, slowly. Singing without drama or expression here.

939.

Her tea is hot, a tad too much here. A man leaves, he is wearing a checkered shirt hre. Nobody is

in here now, it seems to be that time of the day. It is eight and twenty, the commuters have left,

the office crowd and it is now the silence before the storm, before all those people who come

here to hang out and socialize. First thing in the morn it is all about nicely made up people who

go to work and sell stuff in offices or shops. More the people who sit in offices where money is

counted. Or where decisions are made here. Every now and then there is a person who is going to

an early fitness class, spinning, aerobic, although aerobics classes are a relic from a different

time, a better, more innocent time. When we were young and had no wrinkles in our face, no

lines around the eyes here, around the mouth. Laugh lines, cry lines here. The barista has new

glasses that do not become him. Author here is wearing glasses that do not become her, that

make her look stupid here. It is all about the glasses that u wear, four-eyes. There is four eyes

and there is four eyes. The glasses that u choose says everything about yer. It is not merely a

fashion statement, nope, it is an extension of yourself. How you want to be perceived by the

world. What your political inclinations are. If u like to live in the city or in nature with the bears

here. City mice, country mice here.

A man in an Adidas shirt here. A young inem, though he is too chubby. He wears glasses. Too

much of a body mass index. That will take him in, once he is sixty. If he makes it to sixty here.

The idea is that certain bodies will live longer, thinner ones. One has to ask morgues, how thin or

how fat are the people that u bury on a daily basis here? She writes way too much, her neck is

hurting. Time to take five here, time to take five. A beauty queen and her daughter. A woman in

326
a tennis skirt, she is dressed like a little girl. A little girl that does not have to go to work and

work for the man. A woman of leisure. Her daughter seems self-conscious, but all people are

when they are with their parents. Nothing special, nothing special here. A man leaves this place

with a coffee drink. He too is chubby. Today is the day of the chubs here. It is Wednesday btw,

by the way here.

A man with a sixteen on his shirt. A woman with a red top and dreadlocks. The man with the

sixteen near the milk place here.

A white car outside, it is too flat and too big for its own good here. A Mercedes. Though it looks

more like a Maserati wannabe.

A woman in high high heels, yup, that will make u get a promotion. Do u need sensible shoes or

hi-heels if you want to climb up the corporate ladder here?

A man at the milk station, he fusses around with the sugar pack or maybe he is putting honey in

his drink, there is the sound of a plastic wrap, plastic smushing against something else here.

Woman in orange comes in, she is ugly here. This is what we do, we just judge people on a scale

of one to ten. What are you, Trump? This laptop awakens the inner Trump in all of us here. The

suppressed one, nobody insults other people. If u cant say something nice.

She will type this all up. Both women that are at the coffee counter are ugly. Too weightful, yup,

that bloody weight index, body mass here. It is all about how much you weigh, what hairdo,

what hair color. Looks are everything. She had this teacher some ten years ago, he was way too

good looking for its own good, his own good. Beauty as liability, now there is a thing that will

not happen to the majority of the people on this planet. Only to a selected few here. Same with

being way too intelligent, way more than the masses here. She writes and she wears glasses, tries

327
to look scholarly, alas, she never ever will be able to look the part here. She is way too chubby

and she has the wrong gender here. She is old though, wise woman but more wise woman that

knows how to cook. Nurturer, that kind of thing here.

People who nurture are not career women.

Anyhoo, we are spouting off whatever comes to our mind here,

940.

Table top is tilted here, apparently, the floor is tilted too. Why else would the tabletop be tilted

here?

941.

So we write here in the mall. She left the coffee place and is now sitting in the mall here.

Somehow it seems that she does not even remember that she was in the coffee place, she feels so

very disoriented here. She was up at six in the morn, she went downtown, came back to her seat

in front of the laptop, she then went to the coffee house and is now in the mall here. A lotta

roaming around the city here, she is not quite sure if she activated the alarm here. Everything is

ah so weird, she wrote some 2500 words already here and it is merely nine fifteen. So, she has

written a fourth of what she wants to write today, in different places here, at the kitchen table and

at the coffee house and now she is in the mall here. She is not quite sure if this will work, the

writing in different places, feverishly here. The nomad writing versus the staying put in one

place and doing the work here. It is good for the body, maybe, she does not stay cramped up in

one position, she flexes the muscles a tad, walks in-between writing stints here, where she is here

in the mall, she does not see much, her back is to most people as of yet. The KFC is not open yet,

apparently people in the mall here do not have chicken first thing in the morn. It is more a coffee

328
place at this time of the day here in the food court of the mall here. At nine nineteen in the morn

while the air conditioner is doing its thing here. The seat she is sitting on is swivel, more to the

right than the left. On her left is this iron wrought thingie that separates the seats from each other,

there is a tiny courtyard here as if this is some kind of outdoor place in Tuscany here. It is not, it

is a food court in an upscale mall here. The mall seems to be upscale, it is expensive here. There

is a taco-luis next to her, come to think of it, this place is as upscale and as non-upscale as any,

the stores are all the same, the prices are all the same here. These are chain stores anyways here.

Two persons talk to each other, exchange stuff. They are both baristas, baristas of the same place

that is everywhere in north America, yup, Starbucks, obviously here. Apparently the reason why

Starbucks was not able to penetrate the Australian market is that there is a thriving coffee culture

already. People like to have their coffees in places that are different from each other, they like to

have different experiences of coffee house atmosphere. With Starbucks, the experience is the

same anywhere you go. There is just one kind of experience and it is the same whether u r in

Zurich or in New York City. At least that is what the commentator on the radio said. Author is

not quite sure if that is true, there are definitely regional differences in chains. If u r in New

England at this time of the year, u can have something called an lobster roll in McDonalds. U

will not get it here on the west coast, that is for sure here.

942.

There is a man waking by, outside, he is swinging a bag to and fro, he is wearing culottes or

shorts or Bermuda shorts whatever you want to call that. He is wearing dark black sun glasses.

He is wearing a black shirt, a polo shirt, he is wearing a baseball cap. He is old and fat. Now a

woman comes in, she is wearing a hat. She is thin and she is sporting a cane. She walks by

author here. She is really old here.

329
The writing ah the writing here. We have 93251. Two women are next to author, two old ladies

all dressed up. They speak in a language that author here does not understand. The mall is now

opening, the stores are. The stores in this place open up at nine thirty on weekdays. For some

reason the light in the food court became brighter at the time that the loudspeaker announces that

the shopping can begin now. Why? Do we need to have more light in the food court, if we eat?

What is the reason for that here? It is not getting brighter outside, actually it is getting brighter

outside next to noon. Apparently, the food court is supposed to mimic the real world, the outside

world so that people will not leave this place and stay happily indoors and shop all day here.

Author pindes, is that what prisons do, schools. Factories. All those places that house a myriad of

people indoors here.

Her writing ah her writing here. The taco place is now open, the taco loius place. Luis. What

exactly is a taco luis? Who is luis? Why luis? Author has a Mexican taco thingie at home, in the

fridge, she bought it in the coffee place in downtown and took it all the way home on the bus

here. She purchases her food in the coffee place these days, her wraps are delish. She used to

have Thai tuna, nowadays it is a Mexican taco wrappish thingie here. With bans that she is

getting ujsec to here. A young man stands in front of the taco place, he is wearing a so very big

rucksack, he has his whole life, all his possessions in that back pack here. He does not look

destitute though he looks very wealthy. Why does he have to have that much stuff in his back

pack here? Textbooks. He is a kid, very young here. A student definitely, he is at that age here.

Anyhoo, still writing and still writing here. She will go down to New York City and she will

write in different places. This place here is dangerous, it is full of people with canes,. The

geriatric set here that hovers around in foot courts in the mall here. Author ponders, she too is

part of that set, she does not use a cane though as of yet. Canes are kind of dangerous to others

330
about mainly to the person who holds the cane. Canes make yer trip here. A man takes lots of

milks to the Starbucks, a cart full of milks. So they must have a place that holds a refrigerator,

the place does not look like it though. It just looks like a stand without any place to store stuff.

No warehousy place in the back here. Seems that the mall here is full of surprises, full of secret

nooks here. She has near to 4000 already at ten in the morn here. She will miss King of Queens if

she stays put here.

943.

She just changed seats, she now is facing the sandwich shop, Subway and the innards of the mall

here, not the window, nope, the shops. You can do that, this table in the corner has two swivel

seats that swivel to the outside and that are opposite of each other here. She ponders, so this is

what she does eight years out of visual arts skool here, instead of painting she writes here. Looks

at people walking by in the mall, the woman in black pants and blue shirts who works for telus

or some other place that sells fones to people here or fone plans. Bell, maybe here. People are

wearing the uniforms that denote the place that they work for, author here too is wearing her

work attire, glasses, hair in a bun, casual, non-sophisticated garb. The clothes of a poor poet in

the garret. Something that looks like her pee jays here. The Orange Julius is shining brightly in

the distance here. Man makes an arrogant face and looks full of disgust at people here. His arms

are in front of him. To author here, everybody looks like a serial killer, maybe that is because she

herself is self-conscious about sitting in this place and typing this up. Nobody here types, people

just socialize and eat and people watch. She cannot really watch people here, she just has to look

down at the keyboard in front of her here.

944.

331
Opa of Greece, there is this store, this place that sells Greek food next to the taco place. A food

court, huh, it has all the foods of the world here, Indian food, Mexican food, French food,

Chinese food, Greek food. You can be Anthony Bourdain Parts Unknown in one big swoop here.

You never ever need to leave this place. Well, you have to go home to sleep here. If you fall

asleep on one of the benches, security will shoo yer away here.

945.

Hopefully nobody will shoo her away here, this is no library, lady, no office here. Nowadays all

the food places are offices here but more so in certain places, in the university adjacent places.

To make sure that people buy into the notion of the poor student, which is not true, students have

to have wealthy parents who foot the bill. At least in North America or in the UK. In the

anglophile places. In France and Germany it is different, you get into university if you are smart

here. Same in Zurich.

She ponders, are her insights ok-ish. Her social analyses. Her insight. It is nine fifty-seven in the

morn here.

946.

Scenes from a mall, scenes from a coffee house. Should take this to the airport and do her

writings there. She could type in the gym. Anywhere where there is a horizontal surface to put

her laptop. So that she can type up her master piece. A woman gives her a look, maybe that

woman will read her book once it is published here. Or watch the movie. She needs an

entertainment lawyer, she actually knows a very good one here. He is the kind who will negotiate

her film rights in Lalaland. He is the kind of person, his dad is a lawyer too. They are so very

nice people, she ponders if she wants this to be a movie. Shed rather have it as a book,

332
something that all her friends and family can read and go wow we did not know that she has

these great insights here. Her dissertation, her masterpiece here. What is the difference between a

dissertation and a masterpiece? That is easy, it is fame and fortune here. Dissertations are peer

reviewed books that nobody reads and masterpieces are books that people talk about for

centuries to come here. That is how it is how it is here. Opa of Greece. There is an exclamation

mark after the OPA and in front of the OF GREECE here. A man in a black shirt and black pants

is standing in front of the opa place, he works for them and is fixing something. Nope, he

actually was a customer, that happens if you type and just glance up for moments to observe.

This place is so very loud, so many people are talking at once here. All over this place. The

public realm ah the public realm here.

947.

She is still wearing her funny glasses. Her micky mouse glasses that make her definitely look

like a freak of nature here. The freak of nature look is very in for glasses wearers, she hates it. It

is the eyeglasses equivalent of weird facial hair in weird places, soul patches, professorial beards.

At one time even moustaches were like that, before the Beatles came in and made them normal.

948.

Hair in wrong places, glasses in the wrong forms. Well, she sure knows what to write about here.

We have next to 4500 words here, she definitely has a tummy ache here. She hs a lotta tummy

aches these days here. Something nervous or the result of too much food. Your poor stomach

cannot stomach that much food here, is not able to do so. The taco lady is Chinese, well, there is

a mix of cultures here. The line at the coffee place is immense, tremendous here.

949.

333
Orange Julius, Subway, Opa with an exclamation mark of Greece here. All the cultures of the

world in one nice mall with too harsh an air conditioner. It was a scorcher two days ago, but now

the temperature is back to normal and we do not need this kind of artificial breeze here. She is

arguably chilly here, this place gives her the chills, if not the creeps here.

950.

She has next to 5000 words for the day, maybe she even has reached this number already

because she stated up somewhere south of 90 thousand. South, north, people use that term and

author is not quite sure what it really means, it has become en vogue these days just like the word

hyperbole and the word selfie and fomo. usually one word makes it, she had never ever heard of

the military industrial complex, it now seems to be a buzzword in academia. In the same way

that impetus used to be here, impetus this and impetus that here.

951.

This place is so very good for writing here, it has food, it has nicely tended facilities here. The

main problem is the AC, it is way too loud, way too forceful here. Loud and forceful seem to be

the same for writer here. She will come back and edit this at aler date later time here.

952.

94882. 10:19. July 2. 2017 here.

953.

Eleven more words and then we are there, three more and, sorry, my bad, we are not there yet.

954.

334
She still needs some one hundred words to have a round number, that part of her brain that

should register things, does not register things correctly here. Her mental capacity is clouded by

her vision, she does not see well in one eye, her sight in her left eye is clouded. She ponders if

that makes her susceptible to misjudgments. My disability makes me do things, just like it makes

me misread stuff. She used to take one fast glance at something and her brain would register the

visual reality correctly, accurately. Nowadays that ability has gone, she misreads things. It is

more that she is used to the way she did things before her crvo, the ability to see has deteriorated

but we learned how to live with it. Anyhoo, she now has 95044 words here at twenty-five past

ten here. She is awake since six, she is writing since seven here. Three and a half hours of

writing and five thousand words here. Great ah great here.

955.

Three hours writing and an output of five thousand words here. She subtracted half an hour for

transport, transit. She had to drive down to the mall and to the coffee place. 180 minutes and

5000 words. That makes how many words per minute here? 180 divided by 5000, make that 18

divided by 500. How do you partition 18 into five hundred little pieces here? Math ah math.

Make that nine divided by 2500. 9 divided by 2500. What is the 2500th part of nine? Hmm,

maybe, math is not her thing here. There is a reason why we ended up in wordland here. Maybe

we can say that it takes us one hour to produce two thousand words here, on a good day. Three

hours 6000 words. 2000 per hour here. Pretty good, huh. She has 92500 or so, wait, make that

94, no 95200. Roughly 95000. She feels like boozing, boozing is the best here. She is a wake for

four hours and she is spent. Booze cannot waste her that much, make her wasted this immensely

here.

956.

335
U r not connected, apparently, she has no internet connection here in the food court of the mall

on Forty-first here. What, no Wi-Fi? What is this here? The dark ages?

957.

She is now back at her laptop. Pick up where u left off six minutes ago. She is in the library

down here and it is so very weird here because here she can hear the sound of her laptop whereas

she did not hear it up in the food court. Somehow the sounds of the typing make her self-

conscious, it is after all a library, you are supposed to be quiet. Even though she is sitting in the

place that is designated for laptop users, even though this is how it is, even though there are

people talking but in a stilted hush hush way, she does not feel that she should make so much

noise when typing up her words here. Besides, this is the place where people read not where they

write. They read stuff that others have typed up and printed out. There is atstrfg division between

people who write and people who wrikte. One group produces, the other consumes here. You

cannot merge those two worlds here even though they say that people who want to be writers

have to read a lot. Hmm, maybe people who write have to watch tv a lot. You hear stuff and then

it is processed in ur brain and then u spit it out in a new way here.

Anyhoo, still writing, still srfiting here. It is chilly in here too, outside in the stairway the weather

was warmer, much nicer here. Outside it is actually pretty cold. She walked by all the summer

fruit, cherries in plastic bags, by the flat peaches, the donut peaches here. Donut peaches and

expensive cherries, that sure says summer summer here. It is weird to be in this place with all of

its books here. She thought there is a man standing and reading with his arms behind his back,

she looks up, there is no man, only shelves. She is starting to see ghosts her. Too much typing

does that to yer here. The mall is full of old people, and if push comes to shove, author here is so

336
very old herself here. But maybe she was born old, she was always old, she always acted old.

She is just now coming into herself here.

958.

She ponders, if her books will ever be on these shelves here. Printed out and bound. Does she

even want to do that, go that road? Everybody will know how silly she can be if she makes

people read her writings here. It is so very different from painting nice pictures of flowers,

nobody has a problem with flowers. Everybody has a problem with words though here.

959.

They still have many many shelves filled up with DVDs. Who watches DVDs anymore? Weird,

huh. Obsolete stuff for obsolete users.

960.

She will write some more and write some more here. This is the end of her book, she should go

out with a bang. Start with a bang, go out with a bang. Bookend your work. Talk about the coffee

house again, the one where it all started up here. Her four months of writing, give some take

some here.

She feels sick, nauseated, too much typing will do that to yer here. It is exactly eleven in the ey

em, she started her day at six in the morn. Five hours of being awake here. Walking, writing,

more like typing here. A bab y talks baby-talkish somewhere in the distance here. Watch ur

belongings is what a sign says in lots of different languages and different scripts here. Somebody

sneezes, a weird sneeze here. The baby still talks, and nobody knows what he or she says here.

The writer and her book here. No Hemingway and no Fitzgerald here. No George Orwell.

337
Upstairs one can hear wheels that are moving over the floor, the floor which is actually the roof

of this place here. The library is in the basement of the mall here, the mall on Forty-first here.

People in this place here are either very young or very old here.

961.

There ae pictures on the wall, authors perhaps. The author foto, usually it is in black and white,

these authors are in color. Maybe that is not that good for an author, black and white adds this

luster of respectability to the picture of an author. An author who is alive but who poses as a

dead author here. All important authors are dead by now. Voices from the grave here. All

scientists, all artists, all geniuses, they are not alive by the time they are praised and celebrated.

Only celebrities are famous before their time here.

We are sharing our insights for free here, yup, we do that, mainly because we have not secured

payment as of yet here. We write a 10000 word long piece and try to land an agent who will

represent us, sight unseen here. Hopefully it will work, she sent her first ten pages to that woman

in nyc here. To that lady in nyc. That book agent lady here. Landing a Maxwell Perkins, how do

u do that if ur name isnt Hemingway here.

56260. Sorry 56160. Apparently, the kiddie voices are coming from the daycare upstairs, so do

the noises of tires rolling. There must be a babysitting place next to the library, one can hear kids

run and talk. This is new, the babysitting place used to be on the other side of the mall, the

sounds cannot travel that much now can they here?

962.

Well, this kid that cries, is definitely in here in the library, there is a kiddie section after all,

where all the childrens books are. A child is calling for her mother here. Mama.

338
963.

Coffee house, we should describe the coffee house. Not the library. Writers block in the library,

weird, huh, strange here.

All that she does is observing stuff here. A man with a guitar is coming in here. Apparently, he

will teach ESL or something to the boy in the corner here. He just talks to that kid and apparently

that will teach him the language here. Author is not quite sure how that will work, watching tv

reaches the language much better. The guy talks a lot, and this is after all a library, he should

stop talking here. This is not the way that language acquisition works, if u live here u r immersed

in the language. This guy tries to explain the language and that is bull. He says something and

ten he says you understand it? No math teacher would say that, if you are a teacher you do not

interrupt your teaching and then say do u understand that? Because thus u r implying that the

student does not or cannot understand what the teacher says here.

Anyhoo, still writing still writing here. This teacher student conversation is way too loud, it is

interfering with authors writings here. Besides all the teacher does, is talk about his mom. A

grown-up guy with a guitar who talks about his mom. And he definitely looks like a guy who

still lives with his mom here. Seems, that these people who hire a person to teach their kid the

language do definitely not screen the teacher here. A guy who wants to be a musician but did not

make it in musician land here. Anyhoo, still typing still typing here.

964.

She is now in the Chinese section of the library, where all the Chinese books are, apparently this

place is good, though, the reflections from the light above are falling in a bad way onto the

keyboard and all the keys are kind of subverted here. She has to move around to make them

339
visible, the letters on the keys her. Has to move her head, so that she can see the letters without

the glare bathing them here. The other problem is that the table is way too high here but at least

the weird guitarist is not talking to his student, he still is but one cannot hear him from here. All

he did, was say, come on constantly to his student. That is not what teachers do, they do not

constantly say, come on and they do not constantly say, this is what my mom does and they do

not constantly pepper the conversation with do u understand. This teacher will get an F here.

965.

56699, sorry, 96711 here. She is getting hungry here, it is eleven and thirty-three here. She has to

go home to watch Friends which is on in an hour and she has to have food which is at home in

the fridge. The Mexican wrap that she bought downtown and then took with herself onto the bus

and brought it home. They have food here, poutine and the like, in the food court. Maybe she

will have that here instead of the icy Mexican wrap, it is usually cold if it is in the fridge here.

966.

This one person makes a lot of noise with his Chinese newspaper or maybe it is not Chinese. He

is Chinese and he sits in the Chinese book section but he is reading an English newspaper. See

how this works. Btw, he might read a Norwegian newspaper, for what we know here. One thing

is clear, he is very loud and now he moans very loudly. Apparently one of the royal family, he

has no respect for others. An obnoxious aristocrat, not of the noblesse oblige kind. A king

without a country, a discarded prince here. And btw, he is reading a Chinese newspaper, one can

see the script from here, the headlines here.

He puts it back and takes another newspaper. He is dressed in a light orange poloshirt and has a

funny hat. Author ponders, what would you call that hat? It is a hat that a golf caddy would wear.

340
So is his shirt. Apparently he is into golf. Author ponders, all these people in these parts of the

city wear attire that signal that they have money and too much time on their hand. Leisure garb

here.

967.

Well, we do not care, we type this up and type this up here.

968.

97000. Eleven forty-one here. For some weird and strange reason does the part of the interface

that is above the document change when the cursor rolls over it here.

The library in the mall, the food court in the mall. Coffee houses. This is what she does here, she

describes stuff. This famous writer asked her what she was writing. He asked her twice and both

times she answered: stuff. Which was very accurate, this is what we do we write stuff. Stuff is

not necessarily a description of genre, there are categorizations, at least say fiction nonfiction or

poetry. Nope, stuff it is, it teeters somewhere between dissertation, academia and total bullshit

anyways here. All good writing does.

969.

97132. 11;46.

970.

The man with the golfgarb has a weird ring. People these days, what are they thinking huh.

Fashion faux-pas-galore here in the mall. It is a mall, you can buy the nicest stuff here.

971.

341
She needs 3000 and then this is finished here. 3000 in one big whoosh here. In the Chinese book

section of the local library here. A woman comes by with a book cart. She is wearing glasses and

she is wearing white cotton gloves here. She is very young and she is wearing red lipstick here.

A bookish lady with red lipstick. Somehow that does not go with that. The glasses and the

lipstick here. Librarians do not wear lipstick here. They just dont.

972.

The golf caddy man now talks into his fone. He has a gold watch, a cheap one. His glasses have

a patly red frame. The handles are red, not the frame. He definitely is a fashion disaster but he is

leaving. He has what looks like a purse. I am wearing a purse. It is just like a scene outta

Seinfeld here.

973.

He has a tummy too, he is chubby but for some reason he chose an orange shirt and has it tucked

in. A light orange shirt that is tucked in. He left, maybe he knew somehow that he is being

watched here.

974.

Eleven fifty-seven, 7360, 97362.

975.

Still some more words here.

She is at home now and Friends is on. Yay here.

For some reason the cursor here has problems and somehow this does not work that good here.

Something is off here. When she tries to go up and down it does not really work here. We

342
thought that this is just happening in the mall or the coffee house or the library but apparently

there are problems here too. Well, apparently this happens when one uses the battery, she had the

same problem when she took the laptop to the kichen table. If this worked on battery power, if it

runs on battery power here, the software somehow becomes skeweed. Skewered here.

976.

97484. 112:52 sorry, 12:52 PM. In June of 2017. The lastest Wednesday here, the lastest hump

day. There is no word called lastest, we have to use better words, accurate ones here. Her writing

ah her writing here. How to transcribe what you hear. There are ways of doing this, there are

ways that everybody agrees upon. That is why we have dictionaries. The problem lies in that we

want to liven up the language in the same way that hip hop does. New ways of expression. How

much of that can you do in prose, how much of it can you get away with here? There is always a

pull and tag, towards either nicer ways of saying something and clearer playing by the rules ways

of writing here. Grammar spelling punctuation. The things that will take you in here. Put you in,

stifle the creative process here.

977.

Twelve and fifty-seven here. She is up since six in the morn, though not all the time was spent

writing here. There was the bus ride downtown and the bus ride from downtown, so basically the

ride up-town here. There was the walk to the bus station and thee walking to the coffee place

here. Which is actually not true, she was walking to the coffee place and suddenly the bus came

so we went downtown here.

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Documenting a trivial life, that is what we do here. How can that possibly be called literature

here? You have to tell s tory, have to share insights, be able to do that be able to do that here. It is

not just about waxing slightly poetically here.

978.

97555. On the telly, Mike and Molly here.

Funny, huh. This is after the honeymoon in Paris here. Cookieduster as a word for moustache.

Funny, huh here.

So this is coming to an end here, what will she do with her life after the book is finished here?

We will stop once this hits one hundred thousand here.

97800 or something here. 1200 words and this is over. The stuff that we did for four months

here.

979.

Editing will take some time here. But at least this will be finished here. Writing a book in four

months here. We started out pretty good, somehow the quality of the writing went down. It was

basically fatigue, boredom, there is just so much good writing one person has in her. After a

while you just get lazy, by default here. Same happens in novels, parts of books are much

stronger than others. Parts of story plots make more sense than others here. On the telly, the mom

who was a stewardess in another life. In a former life here.

980.

The show is pretty funny it always is. Both sides are happy to be away from each other here.

981.

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One and thirteen. 37075, sorry, 97960. There is something called a reading club happening at the

library under the mall on Forty-first. One can register on Friday, that is when the signup starts up

here. The funny thing is that it is called a reading club and not a book club. Dont they read

books? Apparently not here. What are they reading? Magazines? Dissertations? Other stuff

fluffier than books or tougher than books here. Given that it is a library that caters to what they

think of as everyman or everywoman, chances are they will go for lighter fare than the usual fare

here. Less academic stuff, stuff that people who go to the mall will be able to understand. They

are pretty condescending over there in that library here. They think that everybody is old and

decrepit. Hard of hearing here. They feel that u must be really demented if u r part of a book

club. Apparently a book club is a dirty word in certain spheres of society. Her lit teacher said we

are not a book club, basically saying that book clubs are lower on the food chain here. Book club

ppl do not write essays, they just yap. And cheat on their assignments just as George Costanza

did here.

98166.

982.

2000 words that is all we need here. And then this is finished here.

983.

On the telly, Two and a Half Men here. Laugh tracks. The like here. Life in Malibu, near to

where the filming of the series is happening here. Most filmmaking is done in LA. Most

Hollywood filming here. Author peppers her writing with lots and lots of stating the obvious

here. This is what we do. We type up stuff that everybody knows, everybody can relate to here.

After four months we just stop cold, and call it a book and send it out to lit agents, to

345
unsuspecting souls with three degrees who work in an overstuffed mothy office with three other

persons who are too living in Brooklyn here. They might even be roommates here. Publishing,

huh. So interesting especially publishing in 2017. Lots of writers have something called a book

trailer, stuff that they put on vimeo or you tube. The better ones do book signings. The others do

readings in KGB off the Bowery here. Some talk to Charlie Rose. What do you wear when you

go to Charlie Roses show? What do you wear what do you wear? An outfit from Lord and

Taylor here? What makeup do you sport? What hairdo here? You have to look classically

dressed, whatever that is here.

Something that would be worn by people on Seinfeld here.

98397 here.

984.

1500 words that is all we need here. She has been out all day here and we got nothing. Zilch. We

observed so much and nothing stuck here. No interesting ppl, nothing out of the ordinary here.

She is hungry here. We need something for dinner here. For lunch, it was the Mexican fahita

thingie that she got in the coffee house in downtown and brought up-town on the bus here. You

can get it here too. She could drive thru, Filet-o-Fish sounds great here. She just has to make sure

not to go there at five. Too many ppl eat at exactly five here. The drive thru line is very filled up

at five here.

985.

She has a coupon or a drink but apparently she can just use it on Thursday here. So the woman

with the slight accent told her in downtown. They all have accents over there, they are from

Australia or from Hong Kong. From Quebec or from Germany. The international crowd works

346
downtown. The people who are from the Okanagan or Ontario they work here. The ones from

the Interior and Prince George, author ponders, are these her scientific findings here. How does

she even know the demographics of baristadom here.

She is a writer who does lucky guesses and usually is dead wrong here.

986.

98626. 2:18.

987.

Nineteen minutes after two here. Outside, sunniness here.

988.

It is quite funny, the show. They always are here. She needs some 1400 words and then this is

done here. The job of writing a book. One day there will be a plot but definitely not now. Plots

are overrated anyways. They are basically boring here. She prefers to share how the life of a

writer goes by here, the day-ins and yes, the day-outs here. The boredom that is ah so palpable.

The work day of any person. Once it is work it is not fun anymore. It is basically a chore,

something that you have to sit thru until it is over and you can have a glass of wine or a bottle of

beer here. Something before u fall asleep in front of the telly here. That is what poets do, they

write their poetry and then they go to Six Flags. Poets are just like you and me. Some wear all-

white clothes and live in Amherst here. One day she will watch the movie with Cynthia Nixon

and Keith Carradine or whatever his name is here. The guy who played the father of Penny on

Big Bang here. He was on this movie with the pretty lady too, the one who now is on an ad for

Lazy-Boy, the one who says that nothing comes between her and her Calvin Kleins here.

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989.

One thousand and two hundred, then the book writing chore here is over. Nobody knows how

she ended up in writerland, it was definitely not what she set out to do in her golden years. The

words are not ey-o-kay anyways here. They always are wrong, always wrong here.

990.

1100.

991.

She could once more go down to the coffee place. Must be interesting at this time of the day

here. She has never ever been there at this time of the day here. Who will be there at this time?

Two thirty-three. School will let out, though she is not quite sure if summer holidays have not

started up yet here. The holidays should start up in July here.

992.

Twenty words and we are at 89000 here, sorry, 98000, nope, 9000, nope, 99000 here.

Book writing, huh. How do you end this up with one thousand wonderful words here? Insightful

ones.

She is tired here, did not sleep enuf in the nite here. She is up since six after a night with, as

mentioned before, not enuf sleep here.

Which words will end this up, which ones will all wrap this up, put it all together, give cohesion

to a text that is basically fragmented. How to construct a conclusion here? What will be the final

coat of paint here? How can there even be a final coat of paint?

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993.

99092. 3:47. June 28 or 29, more like 28 here. Wednesday, June, 28, 2017 here. According to the

internet here. You can look everything up here. No more calendars or watches needed here.

994.

99127 here.

900 words here. That is all we need here. Outside the sun is still shining nicely here. At this time

of the day there are not many shadings, it is all a heterogenous mass of green here. No drama, no

interesting highlights. Green like a Rothko painting apparently. And everything is way too glary

here.

995.

Eight hundred words here.

996.

Maybe we could wrap this up now, who cares if it is exactly one hundred thousand words here.

Who is counting here? You cannot just amass a lot of nonsensical words, everything has to be

serious, everything should make sense here. Good stories, stuff worth reading. What r u writing?

The famous well-published, well-marketed writer asked. Stuff. A great answer if there ever was

one. Stuff here.

997.

99191 what a romantic number, definitely a visually appealing one here. Outside there is a

breeze, actually quite a wind. A storm. The leaves are swaying, to and fro or something like that,

something of that kind here.

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998.

Seven hundred words here. It is now Two Broke Girls. She will finish this up once Big Bang will

roll in here. The theme songs of 2 Broke Gals here, an ode to the Brooklyn Bridge. An ode to

Williamsburg. That is why the prices of real estate are going up in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and

its glorification in popular culture here. All the books, songs, movies, plays about Brooklyn. And

all of them are born and raised in Los Angeles by transplants from London and the east coast

here. Anyhoo, still writing ah still writing here.

999.

There is a woman who does the yarnbombing thingie. A stab at hipsters, huh here.

1000.

99315 here.

99415 here. Apparently, one has to check-out and check-in in order to get the wordcount

working here.

It is nice outside and we are finishing this amazing masterpiece up here. Laugh tracks on the telly

here. Her back hurts, her neck hurts here. Typing up ten thousand words is quite trying on the

body here. Especially when you use te two finger method here. If one is the kind of person who

can type one hundred words per minute, then this would go much faster obviously here. Math,

math, she could figure out how long that will take. There are how many minutes in one hour.

Sixty. So sixty times one hundred is 6000. One and a half hour for nine thousand words, ah,

whatever here. She is doing this now since six and it is three eleven. She started her typing at

seven, ok, an eight hour workday and we are finishing this up here. After this it is all about the

350
rewrite and the editing here. That will keep us busy hre. She overuses the word HERE as always

here.

1002.

I talked to my therapist. You know Roy at the Starbucks. That is quite a funny line here. 99599.

Still writing still typing here. Gotta finish this up, gotta finish this up here. Her back hurts,

mostly on the right side here, next to her neck here. She is righthanded, so that is how this works

here. Your right shoulder blade hurts because you are overusing the right hand. Even her head

hurts, in the back of her head here. How do professional typists do this here?

1003.

99688 here.

Three seventeen. The writing that is letting out here.

1004.

99699.

By four this will be all finished, all wrapped up here. She can go out to the village, have a

Canadian maple here. Go to the little bookstore on the other side of the street. The one with all

the books on Paris in the window, the Paris-centric bookstore here. 9700, sorry, 99700 here.

1005.

The book ah the book here.

1006.

99763.

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3:22.

The sixth month of the year. Everything in numbers here. Later on, she will have a coffee in the

coffee place down on the way to the grocery place here. She has a coupon somewhere and it will

be a flat white. Whatever that is here. She will have the feel of accomplishment, yuh, why not

why not here. And still the lauhtracks on the telly are deafening deafening here.

1007.

One hundred words are left to write here. She can go out for a walk and wait for the muse to bite

her or whatever it is, that muses do here.

1008.

Sorry, apparently, she needs one hundred and forty words, the wordcount seems to never ever get

it right here.

1009.

99887. Her right arm really is acting up now. Her shoulder blade. Writing hurts here. Some get

tendinitis, animators do get it. If they dont are careful. You have to pace yourself here, that is

how it works here. Fiction sells worse than non-fiction, poetry sells worse than both of them.

There are other pieces of literature, grocery lists, yelp reviews. The snarky remarks you make on

Instagram accounts, your own ones and the ones of others here. Still another episode of Two

Broke Gals is starting up here. Too much telly too much telly here.

Seventeen words and we are outta here. She ponders if she writes out of here instead of outta

here, she has one extra word here. Maybe she should not say the telly and call it television

352
machine or something here. She should write by the way instead of btw. All the abbreviations are

doing her in here and, btw, we have 100044 here. Yay ah yay here.

1010.

The end of the book here.

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