here 3

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she starts up her novel while sitting in the tiny tv-room downstairs. nothing here to inspire her, just the constant noise of the telly- TV- television. she ponders what to write about, how to start a novel, end a novel, how to be articulate, how to construct a narrative. she ponders how many individuals are there in a novel, ah, she ponders, ponders. her laptop broke down, she has to write longhand. she watches ³South Park´, not exactly what Tolstoy watched when writing.

Today is the first day of the Novel- Writing- Contest, she has to produce about 2000 words per day. \It is late in the afternoon, she watches her hand move over the paper, penning blue letter after blue letter.

There should be stories to describe, protagonist A, B, C, antagonist A, B, C, perfect story arc, fiction embracing non- fiction, there should be beautiful words, that fall into place, beautifully, ever so beautifully. she is looking for a book or something, a support for her loose leaves of paper. `

a story, huh?

Love, suspense, sprinkles of sex.

What exactly is a novel? Not a monologue, not a ³ stream of consciousness´. Not this,

not that. Should have some action, not just a description of the TV- program. ³South Park´ characters moving their round faces to- and- fro. Who killed Kenny, they killed Kenny.

Something like that, something like that.

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Now a stupid, mindless Reality-show, she wonders, what time it is. She could describe her coffee-table, the 3 pens, the hair band, the Harvard Design Magazine. There is not much to see here, only inanimate objects, the constant talking on the TV-set.

It is 6:04. on a sunday in november, she watches ³Two and a Half Men´. A story, a story.

She should find the hero of her story, should it be a male or a female? What age? What hair colour? green pants or blue pants? What socioeconomic background, education, how much money in the bank? she is utterly bored. she does not feel like constructing a novel, she is not that good with words. All the stories have already been told, there is nothing more to say, nothing more to say. she knows that there are 1200 writers here in this city, all writing away. All thru November, all thru november of 2009. 1200 Vancouverites with too much time on their hands, too much to say, too much to say. She should count the words, count the words, count the words. she estimates that she has already penned 300 words, which forces her to pen 1700 more words. she started already, e-mailed about 200 words to herself, but changed her mind and started again. She moved all over town, had two double-espressos, one in yaletown, one in kerrisdale, she went to oakridge, to granville island, she used the new Canada Line, all the time talking to herself, searching for words, inscribing the perfect novel in her mind.

This cannot be that good for sanity, the fine line between insanity and sanity, that one, that one. she writes, writes, writes. Wishes that her laptop would work. Tomorrow she has to transcribe this. Tomorrow, tomorrow.

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She tries to heap as many words as she can onto the page, she writes, writes, writes. She ponders what constitutes the difference between a novel and a journal. She could google it, but, hey, her laptop does not work. On TV, Charly, Alan, Jake, sitcom, sitcom, laughtrack after laughtrack. The so very palpable utter boredom of the day after Halloween. Her black Mohair sweater with the holes asks for being described, but there is nothing 2 say, nothing to say.

Another ³Two and a Half Men´ is starting up, but first a Revlon commercial. A cheesestring commercial. She writes, writes. Ah, page 6, page 6. the title of her novel is ³here´, yep, so very creative a name. ³here/09´- this is all she could come up with. Maybe literature is not her field? Could be, could be. But the words flow onto the page, good ones, bad ones, ugly ones. she starts scratching her head. Each page should have about 100 words, so 20 pages would be enough for today. And, yuh, there are different characters in this her novel: She, her pen, her piece of paper. She fighting against the monstrosity, the monster of uninspiredness. She, who is fighting with all these words, she who is battling the language. The language personified. ³Men, men, men, manly men´, and then there is a ³Homer Simpson´ Ad. She just watches junk, there is nothing but junk on TV. She hates the TV, watches it anyways. A ³Clairol-ad´. Blond hair. She ponders, if she should dye her hair.

This is not world-literature-material. She side-steps the big issues of the day, she describes the nothingness of her boring existence. Where nothing, nothing happens. She should start drinking, drunken stupor makes for the propensity to pen superior, excellent yarns. Too bad, that she feels utterly sick, when drinking.

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Her hand cramps up, she writes and watches TV, at the same time. It is too late to venture out to Bean Brothers, to write, write. Maybe a walk through the yellow-red-purple leaves on the ground will make her find a beautiful story. Something with love, longing. something @ the border of sex. something all-encompassing. Something, something, something.

She could describe her kitchen, the sink full of dirty dishes, the laundry waiting to be folded. Who says, writing should be interesting? She could describe, in detail, how she drizzles dish-washing liquid onto the yellow sponge, how she pours water over it.

She ponders, ponders, ponders. There has to be more to describe. She should tackle the big issues of the day, politics, current affairs.

An ad for travel to New Zealand. page 9, page 9, page 9. She looks up @ the cookooclock. She stares @ the beige phone, @ the black remote control, @ ³Two and a Half Men´. stories, stories. Action, Sex, Violence, Love. She hates Writing, despises the blue gel-roller in her right hand. she hates how her nail scratches her middle-finger, how her hand starts to hurt.

She hates that she suddenly becme a writer, she hates her in-eloquence, her non-eloquence. Her hiccupping words, her hiccupping language, her inability to pen the next ³masterpiece´, the perfect, perfect novel. At this point, all she has down on the page is a very inaccurate, very stalling, utterly boring description of herself. It is just her and the quietness of this room. Her exhaustion from writing she can feel herself watching herself, she canœt force herself into good writing. She cannot stop but feel the cramp in her right hand. Writing is so very physical. She can feel dots of head-ache, she watches TV, tries to follow the story there, tries to write here, feels so utterly, utterly weird and strange. So very, very bizarre.

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She stares @ the grey buttons on the black Remote-Control. A narrative, a narrative, any narrative will do. There is a flowery picture on the wall, she could describe that. It must be 7 or 8 by now, she writes and writes and writes.

There should be a dialogue in this novel. She could start talking to herself. Gesticulating to herself. Seems like slightly on the lunatic side.

In the kitchen the fridge makes funny noises. She ponders how much longer she could, should continue to describe appliances, TV, fridge. She could start to describe the brown floor, the black lines. She could describe the green-white flyer on the table in front of her, there is so much stuff in this utterly cluttered room. She sighs, writing is oh so difficult. A novel, a novel.

N-O-V-E-L. She ponders, if it has anything to do with novelty? In the old times, people did not write novels, did they? They wrote poems, theater pieces. When did novels become the big thing? Novel contest, novel contest. 50 000 words in one month, big words, small words.

Syllable after syllable after syllable. Fine words, good words. Impersonal words. Ah, she writes and writes and writes. she sits here, slouched over, on this uncomfortable couch. she writes, writes, writes. page 13, page 13. more to go to go. she ponders if her writing is the next ³war and peace´. Somehow she doubts it. Maybe if she made up different persons. Individual A, individual B, Individual C. Individual A: a beautiful woman with long red hair. Straight hair, not curls. Age? Hmm, age. Ah, she ponders, she does not really want to describe fictional characters. Does not feel like describing personal hells, personal blisses. She just writes so very mechanically. Besides, she penned her master piece already. Writing makes her sick, nauseated. Maybe, tomorrow will be better will be better will be better.

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she ponders how many good stories one person can tell? There are only so many ways one could arrange and rearrange the words of a language.

It is getting late, she should go to sleep. She has to write 4 more pages 4 more pages. She is kind of pissed off that she typed 4 pages already, but she has to omit those, somehow she cannot recycle those. 4 more pages 4 more pages 4 more pages. She wonders if there will be a prize @ the end of this month, if her novel will automatically be on the New York Times Bestseller List.

She doubts it doubts it doubts it. she ponders why she writes, what possesses her to put down all these words. What will she gain, what will she lose? Who will ever read this. Self-doubt seems to be the only constant in her life, her perfect friend and companion. Her shitty oh so shitty writing. She used to be so eloquent, not anymore, not anymore.

Ah, @ least she finishes page 17 and, hey, then it will be on to page 18. The TV noises around, some weird music, fast, the different programs on the different channels. She can see herself getting oh so crazy.

Her hand hurts, too much writing. But she has to finish this has to finish this. Hmm, words, words.

She is holding the Remote-Control in her left hand and is writing with her right hand.

Fast, fast. page 18, page 18.

She ponders what to write about? Science fiction? Something interesting? Something boring? Boring should be good, puts people to sleep. Who reads anyways these days? Who in

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their right mind? Her right mind, his right mind. She ponders, what the right grammatical wording is, the correct syntax.