Titles should never be assigned before content has found its own shape. The best thoughts happen to pop up from a generally unnoticed roiling cauldron which lurks just out of view but hints at itself through unexpected emanations. Thus is prose born, most of it bad.
It is claimed that sodden sullen work transforms these wisps and that through such pain fine literature is produced. Maybe. Does it matter?
This is a notebook, perhaps. The paper can't get wet, but it can evaporate; all paper gets eater by worms or flames or mold, so evaporation is no new threat, just word death in another form.
Onward, I think.
No comments:
Post a Comment