What seems beautiful to me, what I should like to write, is a book about nothing, a book dependent on nothing external, which would be held together by the strength of its style, just as the earth, suspended in the void, depends on nothing external for its support; a book which would have almost no subject, or at least in which the subject would be almost invisible, if such a thing is possible. — Gustave Flaubert
Last week I realized that though I have been writing the sensation of not writing has become dominant. Time has sped by. Weeks have become months. The work continues on The Every American City Ramada on Stark yet there is a lot to sort through that deserves my attention and time. To publish due to loosely established deadlines would be unfair to the work, the reader, myself. Yet despite the nobility of this daily decision the inherent angst has slowly ground the work to a halt.
I am writing this instead of that and if I’m not writing that then I’m not writing—right?
I am at this very moment sitting at my keyboard experiencing the sensation of ‘not writing’. I am writing this instead of that and if I’m not writing that then I’m not writing—right? Plus its all distraction taking up too much of my time!
And yet not all accomplished these last few weeks can be categorized as wasteful. It has been exciting to identify (through my bumbling research) other types of ‘not writing’ out in the wild. I’ve found references, for example: the art of the no playfully explored by Enrique Vila-Matas in his book Bartleby & Co. or Flaubert’s desire to write a book about nothing. Nos and nothings and nots composed of weird concepts hidden in the brush, herds of feral words on the plains, one or two laughing hyenas. I’ve begun scouting. If I can net and cage one or two I’ll bring them back. Catch and release, of course. I’ll make sure to do no harm though they are more common than I’ve imagined — definitely not on the threatened by extinction list but I will take care.
The sensation of time used unwisely and slipping away lives in my garden—a three-legged rapacious rabbit.
What strange noble creatures are these? At first unseen, shadows at the periphery of one’s vision, a sound and sensation of a whoosh as they pass, gusting, rocking wind chimes. Or the sound of pitter-patter. Or howling in the distance, the braying of a donkey. The smell of rotten apples.
Specifically, an I Am Writing This and Not That is a bird of prey, its nest in the oaks in my backyard. When circling its wingspan casts an ominous shadow. And Time Used Unwisely lives in my garden—a three-legged rapacious rabbit. If you are a woman of child birthing age remain armed or stay indoors. Beware or you’ll be popping out balls of fur soon enough. When I go out I keep a slingshot in my back pocket.
And so I continue.