Sunday, January 10, 2010

At some point

I will write a novel of serious import and gravity, its weight will break your wrist if you try to pick it up, or throw it forcibly aside.

It will take in a desert journey and an autobiographical rite of passage, and both of those will be seamlessly interwoven, so you can't tell what is warp or weft.

On the continuing journey, each element of paragraph will subsume the usual tropes of fine writing and arch indifference to writerly custom, as is customary.

I will usually divest myself of the novelist decentred self, and make a comedian callback to the thing I said (which is an anagram of dais)

You can tell literary fiction, because there's no description of things.

See, I just did that. At no point gone was the description of a mountainous hedge or grass like wet carpet, when I got thrown out of home, arse over elbow, and got introduced to dandelions at ground level.

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