After Art School # 77 a - 21(2)

8/7/2019 After Art School # 77 a - 21(2)

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after art school # 77 a nasrin khosrowshahi

5000

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words so easily, you need only a USB-stick. Reason enough to become a writer, not a

painter. No storage space, no storage space.

She ponders, what kind of bio should she write, a witty one would be good. Something

like: the author gets up in the morning, or better yet, rolls outta bed. Target the target

audience, which is the world, everybody rolls out of bed. She ponders, there might be

exceptions. Her writing is not that literal, not that accurate.

Anyhow, back to the bio, the one that will adorn the book jacket, under a pretty black andwhite picture of the author. One with a smile, or, maybe, better, a non-smile. A

mysterious, elegant look, after all, the author has brown hair, brunettes are more

mysterious. They claim to be, not necessarily that successfully.

Writing is tough, especially if you are not blessed with writing chops. Or especially, if

you are blessed with writing chops. What are writing chops? Questions, questions,

question.

And back to the bio. The author steals the wording of her bio shamelessly from this art

directors book, she just saw in the SFU-downtown bookshop: she ponders, this is her

bio:

Author gets up, has a coffee at the local coffee shop, a piece of banana bread, that is her

routine. If they dont have banana bread, her day is out of whack. Author then does other

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stuff, then goes to bed. Next day is more or less the same. Author paints, draws, writes.

Author is non-published, but will be published, because that is what happens to authors if

they keep on authoring. The end.

She is happy, that is as good a bio as any.

Very elusive, maybe even mysterious. Strange slightly.

Strange is good for authors, for fiction authors, that is. Not for textbook authors.

Author is happy, her writing is so very profound. Why not state the obvious, stuff that wecan agree upon.

Author ponders, maybe, controversy is better, it usually sells more books. Shock

value, the like, the like. Sex, violence, the like, the like.

Author has a headache, well, tinges thereof.

Arrggh, and we do not have a plot yet. Author looks to her left, big psychedelic curls on

the wall screen, projected onto it by the grey projector, author still writes, still writes.

It is exactly 3:01, in april, in 2011. In v

ancouver, british columbia

wordcount: five- six- eight

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- - -

something like chapter one

the author ponders what to write about. She looks down at her fingers, pauses, startstyping, this is not good. She closes her eyes, sees herself walking downtown, on

Dunsmuir, wind, spring, sun, by Tim Hortons, by BCIT.

Shmeh, her story stalls. This should not be a documentary of her own life, no self portrait.

Nobody wants to read a journal, that is what book marketers say. Apparently it depends

on which continent you live on, which language you use. Europeans are good at plot-less

stories, great ennui-novels/bildungsromans. Whatever that means, whatever that means.

Americans are good at some other kind of writing, apparently.

Who makes up these rules?

Profs in MFA programs? Publishers? E-publishers? Nobelprize committees? Women,

men? In-betweens?

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Apparently author has some more words, she should push the right button on the

interface, to wordcount this, she will take the reader incrementally through the process of

penning her masterpiece. Kerouac typed or wrote, whatever your persuasion is, ON THE

ROAD in three weeks. Author ponders, you are no Jack Kerouac. Author leans over to

the monitor on the right, types in KEROUAC, yep, his first name was JACK.

wordcount: seven-six-six

- - -

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something like chapter two

she scratches her head, the something like chapter so-and-so works just once, the

reluctant wittiness becomes cheesy, author forgot her original thought. Ah, there it isagain, she remembers. She has about 800 words now, she ponders, how much will she get

for that, if she sells it on grub street, in the market place, her words should be better than

grub, she should write something quasi-intellectual, quasi-scholarly about writing and

money, remuneration of writers, she drew an editorial illustration in her editorial

illustration class, it was kind of good, apparently one picture is worth a thousand words.

she still is not happy with the title of this, maybe, something like after prelude would

be more poetic, it is kind of annoying to wrestle with words. Words are unsmithable, she

said that already in another writing, you know, you are getting good at this artmaking

stuff, once you start to steal from yourself. Apparently Hitchcock said that, author uses

too much of apparently. Author is utterly annoyed, scratches her head, ponders, she

cannot write 100 000 words of this, can she? Will she lose readers? Will she even get

readers? Will the right marketing campaign cement her place in the pantheon of literary

greats? Or is it writing that counts? Nah, everyone can make up sentences, assemble

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words, in the right sequence, slightly on the grammatically correct side, we have

spellcheck after all. She stares at her fingers tapping over the keyboard, dancing

elegantly, eloquently.

time to go home, enough writing 4 today, same place, same time here, come tomorrow.

And we write, write and write some more.

wordcount: one-oh-four-three

- - -

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reluctant start of another chapter- lost count here

author ponders, if her writing is too artsy, not artsy enough, if it is too gimmicky, if this

style of writing is just masking her non-existent talent, her strange syntax, her boredom,her ennui. Ennui sounds better than boredom, it is a better animal than boredom. So

author was assured during a long-winded artist talk, ennui is chic, boredom is non-chic.

Boredom is just plain boring.

Author is not that happy with her insights, they seem to be kinda inconsequential. Maybe

she should paint pretty pictures instead of writing. Then again, there is the storage

problem, USB-stick versus basement full of rotting paintings. How did dostojevsky do

it?

author has no idea why this software on this very computer is so very temperamental, it

does weird and strange things, marches to its own drummer, makes the letters appear

bold, even though author pushes right kind of button, ah, woman against machine, time

seems to be standing still, here in the computerlab on the second floor of the north

building. And as always, we have no plot no plot no plot.

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she should write about murdered people, worked for agatha christie, somehow author

prefers to write about happy things, about swirls on computer monitors, we dont need

cliff hangers here or lots of characters, writing is about amassing words, nothing else

nothing else nothing else. This is our manifesto here, author just was in an exhibition

about manifestoes, in SFU, downtown campus, that is what inspired her to write this, she

feels sick nauseated.

wordcount: one- three-one-one

- - -

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maybe a love story

ok now, so who here needs art? And what is the difference between good art and bad art?

and furthermore, shouldnt we pen a love story? i dunno, bout romance or stuff?

author ponders, is it good for the washer to have wet clothes in there, and besides, will it

get moldy, while she types this? She refuses to write about romance or murder or

zombies, this computer lab is so nice, all these people penning their last minute essays, it

really inspires you to pen a masterpiece, masterpiece # 77 a. To clarify, what just

happened here, the washer mentioned above is the washer full of laundry @ home. She

could clarify some more, but why? Or better yet, how?

wordcount: one-four-four-two

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author ponders

this could have a much better title, the quintessential author ponders is too thin, yep,

that is what methinks. Looking at the swirls on the computers, listening in to theforcefully opened door, the air conditioners roaring, the talk-a-talks in the background,

my queezy stomachs turning.

author really ponders, wonders, how to catch her writing and take it back into third

person singular narrative, the day marches forward, well, it always does, author

reprimands herself, her writing should be more robust, more masculine, important issues

rule rule rule. Not chirps on paper. And

wordcount: one-five-three-nine

( the software is so very very strange, author types in a w to start the word

wordcount, it morphs into the bold font, ah, magic, magic) ( machines, machines,

machines)

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wordcount : one-five-seven-one

- - -

slight boredom

author ponders if sitting still is good for the system, it obviously is not, a walk by false

creek would be good, the screeching of seagulls above, the lights that are on the other side of false creek, the wind in ones face. It is getting chilly in here, the air conditioner is

way too high, the curlies on all these monitors still roll around, outside, it is becoming

duskier, but not quite, students are talking, penning their treatises, author feels slightly

uneasy, her writing is not good enough, not good enough. How much can one describe

the here and now, how can one possibly squeeze juice out of the banal, she selfdoubts,

that is her genre, her expertise. Yep, there should be car chases and if not a car chase,

then at the very least, roadrunner, wile e. coyote, beep, beep, there has to be action,

action. She swirls her seat to the right to the left, hmm, that is action, for now for now for

now.

Going up to the fourth floor of the south building and drawing a pretty picture in the

illustration place, that is where its at, is at.

wordcount: one-seven-seven-four

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there is not much going on in here in this computer lab, writing is like magic, if it is good.

the author is flabbergasted how writers can sit in a room, in a static position, hunched

over the keyboard and construct perfect sentences, author is out of words, and she has not

even passed the two-thousand-word mark. Exhaustion is setting in, slowly, slowly,

slowly.

wordcount : one-eight-four-one

- - -

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something fast paced

words should gallop, dance, writers block is so very palpable, author is determined tofashion good words, good sentences, she just has to will herself to keep on typing. There

is a lot to describe here in this place, the weird key on the silvery box near the projector,

the holes in the metally thing in front of her, the woman to her right, typing. The sound in

the back, short, a yelp. The orange outlet to her left. Wordcount, could it be, 2000, if she

needs 100 000 words, she needs fifty more days. Ah, writers block-writers block.

Maybe she should put a recipe in here, maybe she should omit the word maybe. The

computer room, so very stale, grey, her back hurts, her shoulders, a woman comes in,

someone says HEY, door opens, closes, woman leaves, while stomping her feet to the

ground, elegantly. And

Wordcount standing @ 1999.

- - -

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chapter without title

the constant clicker clucker of the mouse at the far end of this place is kind of annoying,author wonders, if she should write a tad more positive stuff, she looks at the pushpins in

the box to her right. A woman in a green sweater opens the blinds, the curlies on the

monitor swirl around. This lab is really a lab, author is cocooned in front of computer,

typing, typing. Slowly but steadily losing of mind. She omits articles at random, woman

in black and leopard shawl is checking red i-phone. Door opens, closes. And the

wordcount is at 2107. Good good good.

- - -

author ponders, she should really stop putting her words into chapters, there are way too

many chapters already, this will not work out not work out. Lets just vie for chapterless

writing and, by the way, it is way too cold in here. Not that that has any bearing on the

chapter issue, but, hey, it is still cold and chilly in here. Time to go home to go home to

go home.

- - -

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artskool 8

the woman with the blond hair sits at the computer and starts typing.

Author wonders if it is a good idea to make up a protagonist who is female and whowrites. Too close for comfort. To be very clear, author is a person different from the

woman with the blond hair, author is the writer of this text, at this point, the task of

writing becomes utterly confusing.

Outside, a drizzly april morning leans into the afternoon, the mac lab on the second floor

of the north building is awash with the sneezing of a woman, author ponders, why she

uses such annoying language. Eloquence is not hers, today, she still will hustle this text

aggressively, maybe, someone will like it, someone might find her writing charming, or

something, all writing teachers cannot be wrong, for some stupid reason this keyboard is

too close to the edge. Author, pushes the monitor back, so that there is more space for the

keyboard, the keyboard is leaning against this contraption that the monitor is bolted to.

The whole thing is too tight, author has to sit contorted, besides, the chair is too low,

somehow her words feel as tense and contorted as her body, it is paramount to feel

comfortable in order to make the words flow like magic. How many words do we have

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here?

Author ponders, if the title of this chapter is a good one, an accurate one, given that this

writing is done in an artskool, but what does that really mean?

author ponders, she should describe a romantic liaison or something, a car chase or

something, and something, ah, door opens, door closes. No one will make a film out of

this book, she ponders, if it will be translated into 77 languages, she ponders, ponders,

ponders. She is on page 16, no, 17, someone is talking all the time, someone is makingnoise with the chair, someone is making noise with paper. The air conditioner sings

silently, it is seven minutes after twelve. time 2 stop, time 2 stop.

wordcount: two-five-three-five

- - -

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at the vancouver public library

she is now sitting, where else, in the downtown branch of the VPL. author is sitting in theCentral Branch of the VPL. downtown branch and central branch, author uses them in the

same sense, obviously there are more downtown libraries than the central branch. Author

hates writing, who refers to herself as author? Shouldn't it be the author? By omitting

the the, author wants to conjure up connotations. Or something like that. Author sighs,

author should go back to the drawing board.

So, what else is new? Someone coughs really badly, women talk in the back, the

escalators roar. A man in a red sweater walks by. author is falling asleep while writing.

Now, now, did shakespeare pen hamlet while yawning his head off? Author ponders

ponders ponders. Takes off her shoes, curls them up, looks to her right, to her left.

HENRY MINTZBERG-MANAGING, IVANKA TRUMP-THE TRUMP CARD.

Escalator noise, bad cough again. Hmm, how many words words words.

wordcount: two-seven, two-seven

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a story should crystallize, somehow

the writer ( for this part we let go of the term author, it is way too weird, anyways)

ponders a tad, sitting again in the maclab on the second floor, this place is brimming with

people, working on their films, maybe essays, but it seems, they are all working on visual

stuff the writer finds herself in the adjacent computer lab, the prof in the other lab

kicked her out, anyhoo, writing, fast, fast, fast. The wordcount should be accumulating,

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we are @ 2794 here, it does not really help that the writer here spends all her time

reading an interview with this years pulitzer prize winner in the huffington post,

yesterday was pulitzer prize day or something, the fiction writer lady did sound way too

gloom in her description of writing, I thought, writing is just, waltz in, type some, send it

out, get published, apparently not and not and not, author writes really bad prose,

somehow author and the writer are one and the same, better go home now, office on the

telly, a grandma burger from A&W, hey, life is fun fun fun. A N D

wordcount: two-nine-zero-zero

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fast writing

for some reason, author is more preoccupied with formatting the damn thing than with

playing around with the language, maybe because of the so very grandiose idea that her

writing is excellent, what is amiss is the right kind of marketing and the right kind of

formatting in order to attract middle men, middle woman, lawyers, agents, sellers,

bookbinders, the people that stand between the idea and the final product, the people who

will make it happen, the ones that look at pie charts and bottom lines, and copyright,

infringements, IPOs, whatever the term might be, but in general, that means, everybody,

everybody is a potential reader or a potential critic, everybody but the form giver herself

(in this case form giver is synonomous with author, words are small elements to make a

larger unit, a text), anyhow, gotta run, crme brulee time in vcc will be over soon.

oh , and another thing that just happened to author, a talk with a woman was about to

make author take her manuscript out of her purse and hand it to the woman, here, see, this

is what I am up to, not a good idea, never show work in progress, only the finished

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product, ah, tough, to be a writer author whatever. And, now, time 4 crme brulee, and

wordcount: three-one-two-seven

seven e-queries

author is sitting in the mac lab, on the second floor of the north building, it is really cold

in here, the air conditioner is totally outta whack, one needs to wear a polar fleece or something in here, never ever do your work inside without proper attire, author e-

queried seven or eight, maybe, nine agents already, yep, 4 this very piece. It is fun to e-

query, you should try it once, you just e-mail your book proposal to different agents, after

all, publishers will not accept work by an unagented author. It is all very complex and

confusing, author types and types and types. Today she was too late for crme brulee, she

had this too fatty, too greasy desert, two cookies with cream in between, it looked nice,

but it was way too fatty. Even the sales lady commented that the desert looked good, or

was it someone else, author ponders why she fills the pages with all this inconsequential

stuff, shouldnt she write profound stuff, author feels bad, that she types, while the janitor

janitors around, somebody sings, hums, all these words are so weird, I hate writing

writing writing writing. Especially when it is such bad writing. Wordcount wordcount

wordcount. Ok, we are @ 3338.

It is chilly in here, all the animators are working on their films, author misses animating,

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ah, animating. And

wordcount: three-three-five-nine

- - -

chapter without title

author types, types. Swirlies on the monitor to her right, the monitor to her left. Once

again, the air conditioner, blasting away, making this place way too chilly. Author

ponders if she should complain to security, after all, it is a waste of energy and it is really,really cold in here. Woman to the right is busy with animating, zooms in, zooms out.

Author types and types and types.

Wordcount, ah, who cares.

Author is really unhappy with her writing, she should get back to animating, she is so

much better at visual stuff, literary stuff is way too gooey, like lumpy pea soup, words

stall way to much, they are non-fluent, author types types, against the short pauses in the

everblasting air conditioner. And we type type type. Author peeks jealously at the

drawings of the animator

and

wordcount: three-five-oh-seven

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- - -

once more in the maclab

the woman is sitting once more in the maclab, pondering, ah, wondering, debating if she

should write maclab in one word or in two words. The woman is the autor, from now

on referred to only as author. author could use I, but, hey, author does not feel likethat. Author has very peculiar tastes in writing, in putting together words, author was

rejected, twice, today. She sent eight e-queries out- yesterday- and received two form

letters, two form-rejections. Maybe one of them was not a form-letter, the agent put her

name in front of it, both of the letters were very nice, its not you its me, but, hey,

basically, the gist of them was, that she sucks @ writing. Meh, who cares, keep just

soldiering on. The muse might kiss us here, eventually, in her case the muse should be

male. Are muses male or female, is there more than one muse, how does that work? Ah,

writing, typing, you know, publishing is a business, like any other. So they say, so they

say. How many words do we have here? Author is pondering that she once wrote a query

trying to convince the editor that there is no difference between fiction and non-fiction,

somehow that didnt fly. But author really believes that there is no difference, we can

discuss that over a beer. Anyhoo, wordcount marches forward- and thats all that counts

here. Air conditioner started to blow again, forcefully, right into authors neck.

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wordcount: three-seven-six-one

- - -

and still once more in the maclab

outside, bright sunshine, inside here, stuffiness, the blinds are closed, the air conditioner

roars. This cannot be that good 4 the system, hopefully someone will come and open the

blinds, they are mechanical, need a certain key that only the technicians have or several

chosen ones, it feels like norad or where moles live, outside the Saturday before easter sparkles along, dragonboaters getting ready to dragonboat, inside here, there is

desolation, lots of computers with psychedelic swirlies, the inner swirlies swirl

clockwise, the outer swirlies go counterclockwise, author ponders if she should go on and

on in describing the swirlies, there is nothing else 2 describe here, she should just type,

type type. Ppl pen stuff in two days, the marathon novel writers, the write a novel in 3

days crowd. Author wishes she brought her glasses, she does not like sitting here by

herself, in a too dark room, with a too loud air conditioner, while knowing that sunlight

glistens up Granville Island, while sparkles are on the waters of false creek. Author is not

good at penning stuff, her words stall, but then again, they always do, eloquence does not

live here, not any more, not any more. Author could roam the foundation show

downstairs, could go to the market to have a tea, author should write, write, write. Make

up a story, paint characters, author looks at the red outlet, the one that is cased in a silver

metally, well, casing. Author forgot her black markers at home, and her one red marker,

they are not that good , anyways, not her favorite pens, she used to draw everything with

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her favorite pen, but, now she uses, whatever pen she has. Pens are very important for

artists, luckily she is no artist, she just writes or types or draws and is happy if it sounds

good and not so happy if it does not sound good, or does not look good. Her sentences are

weird and convoluted, and there is no storyline and, yep, this cannot be good, not that

good, not that good. Three agents rejected her, she is still waiting for the other five,

apparently her writing is not good enuf, never, ever, ever. There has to be a story

apparently apparently. Not just words sentences, there has to be some kind of

breakthrough in writers land. There have to be landscapes described, car chases, not just

swirlies on computers. You cannot make a film about swirlies on computers, you cannot just tape the sound of the air conditioner and call it a film, well, obviously the visuals of

the swirlies and the air conditioner have to be combined, a film is audio visual. Author is

losing it here, slightly, ever ever so slightly. Lets wordcount for a change, spellcheck and

save. She misses her glasses, her eyes are starting to burn, her left shoulder starts hurting.

Wordcount: who knows who knows who knows. Author is wrestling with the wordcount,

amasses words, but, hey, she has nothing to say, nothing to say. This prose, downhill

from here, downhill, ah, downhill. Even whining becomes redundant, word count, word

count, @ 4276.

The swirlies are really fascinating, they change colors, they are not really synchronized,

not really non-synchronized, fascinating. author is not happy with her incompetence in

describing the motions on the monitors, from where she is sitting she can only see two

monitors and she is not quite sure if the patterns on both computers are the same. They

seem to be slightly different in colour, author looks at the red cables, the lights above, no

story, no story. Ah well, wordcount stands at four-three- eight-one. For now, for now, 4

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now. She could print this out, take it all over town, sit down and write on the papers with

black markers, it looks very professional, as if she knows what she is doing. The author

who sucks but surrounds herself with an aura of self-importance- she knows what shes

doing, knows what shes doing, at the very least she knows how to pretend the knowing

what she is doing part. this is all too confusing and way too annoying, maybe, authoring

is not her thing not her thing not her thing. The desperate author, struggling, fighting with

the words the words the words. Nauseas sets in, ever so slightly, door opens, someone is

opening the blinds and the window, very nonchalantly, let there be light, fresh air, seems,

it was very easy, author should have just tried it instead of whining, one can hear birdschirp, on Granville Island, in the maclab on the second floor of the north building, and

she types, types types.

wordcount: four-five-five-five

author looks through agent requirements, seems, everyone is looking for statements, loud

voices, unique writing, author ponders, what does that mean? Is her writing anything like

that, can any writing be like that? Writing is good or bad, but mostly it is a mix, there are

ebbs and flows, there are strong words and weak ones, silent ones, words that are fillers

and make you gasp for moments, writing is tough, tough, tough. It is like a film, there are

times when you are utterly bored and want to throw the pop corn into the air or over the

person to your right ( or maybe to your left or to both sides, if you are ambidextrous)

author has lost the flow of her statement, who cares who cares who cares. The day

marches forward, slowly, something clicker cluckers, birds sing again, something

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rumbles in the wall. Author types and types and types. Nope, her writing is more on the

statementless side, if writers are statementmakers they would all stand in front of a firing

squad and bare their chests, writers are cowards who hide behind typewriters so it seems

so it seems so it seems. They put their singsang to paper, call it poetry or drama, no one

knows why no one knows why no one knows why.

and the swirlies keep on swirling keep on swirling keep on swirling. Blue turns into

yellow into pink into orange. We are on page 28 here, the wordcount is not even @ 5000,

author put to many long pauses, too many big spaces between the lines, maybe sheshould vie for single spaced writing, who knows who knows who knows. Nope,

definitely, her writing is way too ambivalent, saying something, negating it a tad, it is

meditative to write like that but sleep-inducing, that is the way you write while you are

sitting in a room where birds sing outside the window, where screensavers swirl over

monitors, your writing starts to lack a certain bite, it sucks and sucks and sucks. Author

ponders if less profanity would do, she starts staring at the synchronized dancing of the

swirly patterns again, outside there are people talking and she types and types and types.

wordcount: four-nine-two-eight , 5000, so near, so near, so near.- and there it is, 5000 it

is. 4 now, for now, for now.

ok, so this is not really how it works, there are still some words left to reach the 5000

mark, author reformats her writing, she ponders if it will look nice if she just divides her

writing into chapters that she names 5000, 10 000, 15 000 and so on, it is kind of outta

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whack to do it like that, but it sure drives home the notion that texts are definitely

partitioned into certain chunks of words, if you write an essay for school there is always a

requirement of wordcount, so it seems seems seems.

Author wrote enough, there are other things to do, a walk by the water, something like

that something like that, maybe she will find the perfect storyline, like magic, like magic.

And wordcount, hmm, stands at five-eight-oh-three, lets write and type, huh, and type.

- - -

it is 12:30 or something, author is out of a pen, standing @ YVR, on easter sunday, jotting down her observations with the airport pen, that is near the US-customs

thingies, the one that is fixed with a chain to the table. because, hey, the muse cant wait,

so shed better write, write, write.

this does not really seem to be the right place, to pen your next grate Novel,

maybe standing in a bank would be better. A room for yourself, huh, that is so yesterday!

You need inspiration, or something, and something. fast words, fast words, fast words.

author walked over to the next table, the tables are all round green thingies,

around a beige and white column, there are 4 pens on each table, so it seems, so it seems,

so it seems.

authors hand is cramping up, even though she hardly penned anything. Must be

the speed of writing - a woman in black leggings, walks by, walks by, walks by. woman

in red, red sweater, red valise, loudspeaker, so very loud, author writes, writes, writes.

on the back of her typed-out writing, the one she did yesterday. Hmm, what is the

wordcount here?

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author tries to look unsuspicious, after all, all great novelists pen their

masterpieces standing up in the airport. Well, maybe not.

author ponders, seems, that is what authors do. one of these days, author should,

will, could introduce an antagonist into this mix, obviously, that day is not today.

- - -

author has 2 pages to fill, how tough can it be?

There is not much 2 describe here, and the pen starts losing its ink.

author ponders, fast, a profound idea should come and hit this paper. It doesnt.

A child runs, another one yells. A woman in black, with a red valise.and we write here, write here. one more page, only one more page.

West jet-signs, the like, the like, the like.

Once more the loudspeaker woman, once more the pen without ink. So, that is

why ppl. should not pen their masterpieces in places like this, ppl. need the pens to fill

out their forms and rush to their gate. And author writes, writes, this is how james bond

must feel, yep, why not why not why not. And End, and end. have some onion rings @

burger king, why not why not why not?

- - -

author sits down on the third floor in aberdeen center, starts writing, writing. it is

noonish, or past noonish, whos counting. easter monday, which basically means that

author cannot use any of the free computers all over town, because all libraries,

universities, the like, are closed, thus pan + paper have to suffice. She can describe this

later, her hand starts cramping up already. This particular notebook was way too

expensive, but, hey, this is all she could find. Hopefully, her writing will be super-duper.

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Outside, an airplane, making its way to YVR.

author writes, writes, pretty contorted, she ponders, if she has to buy food or a

drink.

There is not much 2 describe here, a generic place, full of people. authors right

hand is cramping up, especially the part between thumb and wrist. music is loud, the blue

of thom bings glasses is there, author smiles, if you are not from vancouver, you dont

know who Thom Bing is. Just fine, just fine. And were writing and were writing here.

author ponders, she should start to revert to counting the pages, because, hey, there is no

word-count thingie here. Or she will wordcount, once, she is transcribing this. Somehow,she is still writing about writing, seems, she will always write about writing. She will

write for MFA candidates in Creative Writing, that is her target audience. this is not a

textbook, not yet, outside, she can see yellow blocks in the distance.

author feels self conscious, a family is staring at her. Ah, non-writers, nothing else

to do but idle chatter.

Documents

After Art School # 77 a - 21(2)