Moving towards a literary determinism, my writing has begun to lose shape. Over the past few days with a structural focus, the definition of my words has been lost. What can be done to resolve this? Perhaps it is wrong to plot in public - there are times certainly when ideas should be developed behind closed doors. Think of this apartment block. Where are the neighbours? They live, I see papers and post being delivered. Shoes are set down outside the apartments in the hallway. Dust is cleared from beneath the welcome mats. Someone wipes collections of pollen from the stairs with a damp, fine brush. These people do not live themselves out in the open. They only break for cover when fully ready. What are they building in there?
Toying with this idea of determinism within the novel. The actuality of reading in relation to notions of causality; the dual space that reading the novel places you into, confirming at once that because of this book, other worlds exist but, because of this book, none will ever suffice. Each book takes a reader on a tour of possibility. With the first page the book undergoes commitment to enclosed freedom. It presents boundaries around the limitlessly wordless. A shift takes place, a hidden graph of near exponential decay, the trace of blossom being borne to ground by light wind. By the end of the book, the possibilities of action within the novel have diminished. Yet, the possibility of other possibilities has increased.
Knowledge is built through experience. The more times something happens with conformity or regularity, the more we are able confidently to say I know this. The novel is no different.
(Where am I going with this? Tautologies, circles, non-sequiturs all. What idiocy to develop a theory of writing particular to a novel that has not been written. Writing about writing - a uninspirational small death has arrived. Six readers will be very upset this week.)
With concrete examples this might lead somewhere, but as yet the foundations are not laid. So, perhaps a summary is best, before returning to the act of writing what is written about. What a project! they said. Writing about an imagined writing process! And yet, that is exactly what this has become. Scrawlings here about a book that sits on my hard drive, never touched for I am too busy publishing inanities and pretension on a weblog.
This is all I have become. The only thing left now is for me to talk of patterned light, the beginnings of summer, the infinity of the everyday, rivers winding, silent neighbours, lines of psychogeography, boiling coffee and the million other dull motifs of my life that prevent real work from being done. Oh, and the weather. Thunderstorms threaten.