Having written well last night, I woke early today in anticipation of resuming the endeavour. It was cold last night and it is damp this morning, condensation lines up on the insides of the bedroom window and the sun barely breaks through the clouds at the front of the house. So, I wrote well. A rare thing to do, a foolish thing to admit. Things became clear though, certain ambiguities of style became more concrete.
At the beginning I had sought fragment or variations that colluded towards a whole. I had thought of Kundera and Kis, greatly admiring the latter’s short, almost poem-like chapters, each headed with beautiful titles as though they were novels in themselves. And in fact, such is the man’s economy, that they are. I have settled to adopt a short chapter style also, but in a very different way. As is slowly becoming my unwanted custom, I prefer to do away with titles. I love titles as indicators, crafted slips of language that at once lead the way and mystify, but I am no good at them. The novel has no name.
At fifteen thousand words, with perhaps two thirds written, already the novel becomes too long. It is not a novel really, but a long short story which must be made shorter. I look forward with some trepidation to the process of the edit, there is a real excitement growing within me as I begin to realise that I nearly have something ready to show to someone. The small favours I have asked of a close friend with regards to consistency and character have been teasers. I look forward to showing him the hacked version, a foreseen brevity surrounding each sentence.
A late addition: thoughts on a personal isolation. What might be the circumstances behind an insulation from the world? Family relationships, financial security, competent education, new laws regarding movement of peoples round Europe and labour, the merging of the political compass – each of these must exist in exactly the right measurement so that an individual might be established, a young adult, in such a position that he or she is immune from all upheaval in the political and cultural world. Climate change, economic slump, artistic diaspora – all remain without effect on this person, the politically inert individual.
The Dead C play on the stereo, following my morning routine of fruit, coffee, newspaper, World Service, Deutsche-pop. The band enter a world of fluctuation and rumour that seems to fit perfectly at the moment. They approach the dynamics of loss, hint at a disintegrating artistic structure of expression, unsettle by way of altered production methods. They are low fidelity and their static seeps into the room, which slowly warms from the radiator next to my feet. They play a unique kind of islander punk. What causes such insular thought? Can an individual or group move into early adulthood feeling nothing for the world at large solely as a result of geographical placement? Can a sea become claustrophobic? Questions, questions, as the day begins.