A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. —Franz Kafka
a new book is a scary undertaking of unknown proportions. for the past months, i’ve been working away on one like a brave beaver. i’m trying not to let my mind get in the way of the story this time. when i wrote my last larger piece, i did, and it didn’t do the story much good. the novella turned from a beloved son into a jaundiced nephew; i rushed myself and i rushed my protagonists (alas, i never have true antagonists, i don’t seem to have a strong enough connection with evil) towards climax and through the climax towards a resolution that felt limp and lazy to me in the end. this time round, only some of the story is there and i hope it’s enough to begin writing, which will occupy me all the way until the beginning of the new teaching term in october. in the meantime, apart from my 100 day project, daily pleasure and pain, i shall let myself off the online hook, bear with me, folks, i’ll be back as soon as this baby breathes. writing is as unfeasible and unreasonable as birthing. at least, if not more. while i’m away enjoying my garden, do check out the latest (#8) > language > place blog carnival, hosted this time under the title “poetry of place” by the peerless walter bjorkman, preserver of qwik-bake & synthesizer of prose, which i entered with picasso and his minotaur in tow. over and out & back to the creator.
[a few numbers: this is post no. 50. my story submission acceptance ratio at duotrope is 40,08%. the temperature outside is an unbelievable 15°. Days until vacation: 8. days left for the 100 day 2011 project: 38. number of my followers on twitter: 5970. visitors of the 1000 shipwrecked penguins: 4600. posts at kaffe in katmandu: 664. books on the dark ages that i’m reading simultaneously for research and pleasure: 13.]