Beckett

I just read some Beckett this past week, Text is a good one, Joycean, short, tidy and tintintabulous, exactly what one needs to break the sone emitted by typ-lit. (pronounced tip lit, not as tipping point but as in typical.)

I've been thinking that too often artists think the answer is the answer.

We need to get beyond the neat and head to the messy. Better work comes when we don't press resolution. There is beauty in the unfinished.

I've pulled out the novel (really half of the novel I had been sending around. I'm turning this into it's own thing.) I've spent a good week or more every night a few hours, rewriting the beginning, rewriting the beginning...etc. I'm not bored yet. My goal is to really clarify the voice. What a delicate matter, what a brutish matter. One tickles with a swing of a hatchet. There is absolutely no mercy in figuring this voice out.

You know what really sucks, and here you will see life is for the living, that I was sending around a story titled DFW Interviews the Elusive One. It was a spoof on David Foster Wallace heading out to interview Bigfoot. Gonna be tough to send that one around now, not that it worries me but who would dare pick this one up?

C'est la vie, c'est la morte. So I get back to writing.