Writ(h)ing

Trapped in the anaconda coils. Long sentences are serpents, short sentences are wolves. The latter hunt in packs. My thesis is like a lump of jade buried in a ruined temple, itself embedded in a jungle, a forest, a continent of information and seething research.

The best advice I ever got was: just write and worry about editing later.

The worst advice I ever got was: just write and worry about structure later.

There is no justice in writing. There just is writing. Lots of it, in this world of 2011 AD.

I have a student who doesn't bother spelling. He just types an approximation and clicks to invoke the spell-checker. Then he picks the right spell (write spell?) from the drop-down menu that appears. Prefab spells.

There is no more place for the sorcerer of words, the magician of phrases, except in bookshops at more than $15 a pop. But I need the alchemy of the old, the formality that gives form, the illumination of the dream.

Trapped in the anaconda coils, I ponder my next move even as my ribs groan from the pressure.