After Art School # 77 a - 21

8/7/2019 After Art School # 77 a - 21

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after art school # 77 a nasrin khosrowshahi

prelude

her sweater is too hot, so it seems, but after formatting her text in just the right, utterly

precise manner, she feels really comfortable.

so this is another book, the beginning of it, a journey of typed-thru days, that will

ultimately stop @ 100 000 words. The author scratches her head, as much as the

fashionable nude-beige glasses on her head permit that, she wonders how she will fashion

her query, her bio this time. Where she will send her manuscript, which agencies in nyc

and london will reject her this time. MIT would not publish her first book, but they liked

her query.

She starts staring at the monitor next to her, this computer lab on the second floor in the

north building is full of computers with psychedelic, probably artsy screen savers. It is

still spring, some time between end of class and foundation show and grad show, the

author is once more opting for writing instead of producing pretty pictures. You can store

words so easily, you need only a USB-stick. Reason enough to become a writer, not a

painter. No storage space, no storage space.

She ponders, what kind of bio should she write, a witty one would be good. Something

like : the author gets up in the morning, or better yet, rolls outta bed. Target the target

audience, which is the world, everybody rolls out of bed. She ponders, there might be

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exceptions. Her writing is not that literal, not that accurate.

Anyhow, back to the bio, the one that will adorn the book jacket, under a pretty black and

white picture of the author. One with a smile, or, maybe, better, a non-smile. A

mysterious, elegant look, after all, the author has brown hair, brunettes are more

mysterious. They claim to be, not necessarily that successfully.

Writing is tough, especially if you are not blessed with writing chops. Or especially, if

you are blessed with writing chops. What are writing chops? Questions, questions,

question.

And back to the bio. The author steals the wording of her bio shamelessly from this art

directors book, she just saw in the SFU-downtown bookshop: she ponders, this is her

bio:

Author gets up, has a coffee at the local coffee shop, a piece of banana bread, that is her

routine. If they dont have banana bread, her day is out of whack. Author then does other

stuff, then goes to bed. Next day is more or less the same. Author paints, draws, writes.

Author is non-published, but will be published, because that is what happens to authors if

they keep on authoring. The end.

She is happy, that is as good a bio as any.

Very elusive, maybe even mysterious. Strange slightly.

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Strange is good for authors, for fiction authors, that is. Not for textbook authors.

Author is happy, her writing is so very profound. Why not state the obvious, stuff that we

can agree upon.

Author ponders, maybe, controversy is better, it usually sells more books. Shock

value, the like, the like. Sex, violence, the like, the like.

Author has a headache, well, tinges thereof.

Arrggh, and we do not have a plot yet. Author looks to her left, big psychedelic curls on

the wall screen, projected onto it by the grey projector, author still writes, still writes.

It is exactly 3:01, in april, in 2011. In v

ancouver, british columbia

wordcount: five- six- eight

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something like chapter one

the author ponders what to write about. She looks down at her fingers, pauses, starts

typing, this is not good. She closes her eyes, sees herself walking downtown, on

Dunsmuir, wind, spring, sun, by Tim Hortons, by BCIT.

Shmeh, her story stalls. This should not be a documentary of her own life, no self portrait.

Nobody wants to read a journal, that is what book marketers say. Apparently it depends

on which continent you live on, which language you use. Europeans are good at plot-less

stories, great ennui-novels/bildungsromans. Whatever that means, whatever that means.

Americans are good at some other kind of writing, apparently.

Who makes up these rules?

Profs in MFA programs? Publishers? E-publishers? Nobelprize committees? Women,

men? In-betweens?

Apparently author has some more words, she should push the right button on the

interface, to wordcount this, she will take the reader incrementally through the process of

penning her masterpiece. Kerouac typed or wrote, whatever your persuasion is, ON THE

ROAD in three weeks. Author ponders, you are no Jack Kerouac. Author leans over to

the monitor on the right, types in KEROUAC, yep, his first name was JACK.

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wordcount: seven-six-six

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something like chapter two

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she scratches her head, the something like chapter so-and-so works just once, the

reluctant wittiness becomes cheesy, author forgot her original thought. Ah, there it is

again, she remembers. She has about 800 words now, she ponders, how much will she get

for that, if she sells it on grub street, in the market place, her words should be better than

grub, she should write something quasi-intellectual, quasi-scholarly about writing and

money, remuneration of writers, she drew an editorial illustration in her editorial

illustration class, it was kind of good, apparently one picture is worth a thousand words.

she still is not happy with the title of this, maybe, something like after prelude would

be more poetic, it is kind of annoying to wrestle with words. Words are unsmithable, she

said that already in another writing, you know, you are getting good at this artmaking

stuff, once you start to steal from yourself. Apparently Hitchcock said that, author uses

too much of apparently. Author is utterly annoyed, scratches her head, ponders, she

cannot write 100 000 words of this, can she? Will she lose readers? Will she even get

readers? Will the right marketing campaign cement her place in the pantheon of literary

greats? Or is it writing that counts? Nah, everyone can make up sentences, assemble

words, in the right sequence, slightly on the grammatically correct side, we have

spellcheck after all. She stares at her fingers tapping over the keyboard, dancing

elegantly, eloquently.

time to go home, enough writing 4 today, same place, same time here, come tomorrow.

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And we write, write and write some more.

wordcount: one-oh-four-three

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reluctant start of another chapter- lost count here

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author ponders, if her writing is too artsy, not artsy enough, if it is too gimmicky, if this

style of writing is just masking her non-existent talent, her strange syntax, her boredom,

her ennui. Ennui sounds better than boredom, it is a better animal than boredom. So

author was assured during a long-winded artist talk, ennui is chic, boredom is non-chic.

Boredom is just plain boring.

Author is not that happy with her insights, they seem to be kinda inconsequential. Maybe

she should paint pretty pictures instead of writing. Then again, there is the storage

problem, USB-stick versus basement full of rotting paintings. How did dostojevsky do

it?

author has no idea why this software on this very computer is so very temperamental, it

does weird and strange things, marches to its own drummer, makes the letters appear

bold, even though author pushes right kind of button, ah, woman against machine, time

seems to be standing still, here in the computerlab on the second floor of the north

building. And as always, we have no plot no plot no plot.

she should write about murdered people, worked for agatha christie, somehow author

prefers to write about happy things, about swirls on computer monitors, we dont need

cliff hangers here or lots of characters, writing is about amassing words, nothing else

nothing else nothing else. This is our manifesto here, author just was in an exhibition

about manifestoes, in SFU, downtown campus, that is what inspired her to write this, she

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feels sick nauseated.

wordcount: one- three-one-one

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maybe a love story

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ok now, so who here needs art? And what is the difference between good art and bad art?

and furthermore, shouldnt we pen a love story? i dunno, bout romance or stuff?

author ponders, is it good for the washer to have wet clothes in there, and besides, will it

get moldy, while she types this? She refuses to write about romance or murder or

zombies, this computer lab is so nice, all these people penning their last minute essays, it

really inspires you to pen a masterpiece, masterpiece # 77 a. To clarify, what just

happened here, the washer mentioned above is the washer full of laundry @ home. She

could clarify some more, but why? Or better yet, how?

wordcount: one-four-four-two

author ponders

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this could have a much better title, the quintessential author ponders is too thin, yep,

that is what methinks. Looking at the swirls on the computers, listening in to the

forcefully opened door, the air conditioners roaring, the talk-a-talks in the background,

my queezy stomachs turning.

author really ponders, wonders, how to catch her writing and take it back into third

person singular narrative, the day marches forward, well, it always does, author

reprimands herself, her writing should be more robust, more masculine, important issues

rule rule rule. Not chirps on paper. And

wordcount: one-five-three-nine

( the software is so very very strange, author types in a w to start the word

wordcount, it morphs into the bold font, ah, magic, magic) ( machines, machines,

machines)

wordcount : one-five-seven-one

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slight boredom

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author ponders if sitting still is good for the system, it obviously is not, a walk by false

creek would be good, the screeching of seagulls above, the lights that are on the other

side of false creek, the wind in ones face. It is getting chilly in here, the air conditioner is

way too high, the curlies on all these monitors still roll around, outside, it is becoming

duskier, but not quite, students are talking, penning their treatises, author feels slightly

uneasy, her writing is not good enough, not good enough. How much can one describe

the here and now, how can one possibly squeeze juice out of the banal, she selfdoubts,

that is her genre, her expertise. Yep, there should be car chases and if not a car chase,

then at the very least, roadrunner, wile e. coyote, beep, beep, there has to be action,

action. She swirls her seat to the right to the left, hmm, that is action, for now for now for

now.

Going up to the fourth floor of the south building and drawing a pretty picture in the

illustration place, that is where its at, is at.

wordcount: one-seven-seven-four

there is not much going on in here in this computer lab, writing is like magic, if it is good.

the author is flabbergasted how writers can sit in a room, in a static position, hunched

over the keyboard and construct perfect sentences, author is out of words, and she has not

even passed the two-thousand-word mark. Exhaustion is setting in, slowly, slowly,

slowly.

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wordcount : one-eight-four-one

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something fast paced

words should gallop, dance, writers block is so very palpable, author is determined to

fashion good words, good sentences, she just has to will herself to keep on typing. There

is a lot to describe here in this place, the weird key on the silvery box near the projector,

the holes in the metally thing in front of her, the woman to her right, typing. The sound in

the back, short, a yelp. The orange outlet to her left. Wordcount, could it be, 2000, if she

needs 100 000 words, she needs fifty more days. Ah, writers block-writers block.

Maybe she should put a recipe in here, maybe she should omit the word maybe. The

computer room, so very stale, grey, her back hurts, her shoulders, a woman comes in,

someone says HEY, door opens, closes, woman leaves, while stomping her feet to the

ground, elegantly. And

Wordcount standing @ 1999.

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chapter without title

the constant clicker clucker of the mouse at the far end of this place is kind of annoying,

author wonders, if she should write a tad more positive stuff, she looks at the pushpins in

the box to her right. A woman in a green sweater opens the blinds, the curlies on the

monitor swirl around. This lab is really a lab, author is cocooned in front of computer,

typing, typing. Slowly but steadily losing of mind. She omits articles at random, woman

in black and leopard shawl is checking red i-phone. Door opens, closes. And the

wordcount is at 2107. Good good good.

- - -

author ponders, she should really stop putting her words into chapters, there are way too

many chapters already, this will not work out not work out. Lets just vie for chapterless

writing and, by the way, it is way too cold in here. Not that that has any bearing on the

chapter issue, but, hey, it is still cold and chilly in here. Time to go home to go home to

go home.

- - -

artskool 8

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the woman with the blond hair sits at the computer and starts typing.

Author wonders if it is a good idea to make up a protagonist who is female and who

writes. Too close for comfort. To be very clear, author is a person different from the

woman with the blond hair, author is the writer of this text, at this point, the task of

writing becomes utterly confusing.

Outside, a drizzly april morning leans into the afternoon, the mac lab on the second floor

of the north building is awash with the sneezing of a woman, author ponders, why she

uses such annoying language. Eloquence is not hers, today, she still will hustle this text

aggressively, maybe, someone will like it, someone might find her writing charming, or

something, all writing teachers cannot be wrong, for some stupid reason this keyboard is

too close to the edge. Author, pushes the monitor back, so that there is more space for the

keyboard, the keyboard is leaning against this contraption that the monitor is bolted to.

The whole thing is too tight, author has to sit contorted, besides, the chair is too low,

somehow her words feel as tense and contorted as her body, it is paramount to feel

comfortable in order to make the words flow like magic. How many words do we have

here?

Author ponders, if the title of this chapter is a good one, an accurate one, given that this

writing is done in an artskool, but what does that really mean?

author ponders, she should describe a romantic liaison or something, a car chase or

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something, and something, ah, door opens, door closes. No one will make a film out of

this book, she ponders, if it will be translated into 77 languages, she ponders, ponders,

ponders. She is on page 16, no, 17, someone is talking all the time, someone is making

noise with the chair, someone is making noise with paper. The air conditioner sings

silently, it is seven minutes after twelve. time 2 stop, time 2 stop.

wordcount: two-five-three-five

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at the vancouver public library

she is now sitting, where else, in the downtown branch of the VPL. author is sitting in the

Central Branch of the VPL. downtown branch and central branch, author uses them in the

same sense, obviously there are more downtown libraries than the central branch. Author

hates writing, who refers to herself as author? Shouldn't it be the author? By omitting

the the, author wants to conjure up connotations. Or something like that. Author sighs,

author should go back to the drawing board.

So, what else is new? Someone coughs really badly, women talk in the back, the

escalators roar. A man in a red sweater walks by. author is falling asleep while writing.

Now, now, did shakespeare pen hamlet while yawning his head off? Author ponders

ponders ponders. Takes off her shoes, curls them up, looks to her right, to her left.

HENRY MINTZBERG-MANAGING, IVANKA TRUMP-THE TRUMP CARD.

Escalator noise, bad cough again. Hmm, how many words words words.

wordcount: two-seven, two-seven

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a story should crystallize, somehow

the writer ( for this part we let go of the term author, it is way too weird, anyways)

ponders a tad, sitting again in the maclab on the second floor, this place is brimming with

people, working on their films, maybe essays, but it seems, they are all working on visual

stuff the writer finds herself in the adjacent computer lab, the prof in the other lab

kicked her out, anyhoo, writing, fast, fast, fast. The wordcount should be accumulating,

we are @ 2794 here, it does not really help that the writer here spends all her time

reading an interview with this years pulitzer prize winner in the huffington post,

yesterday was pulitzer prize day or something, the fiction writer lady did sound way too

gloom in her description of writing, I thought, writing is just, waltz in, type some, send it

out, get published, apparently not and not and not, author writes really bad prose,

somehow author and the writer are one and the same, better go home now, office on the

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telly, a grandma burger from A&W, hey, life is fun fun fun. A N D

wordcount: two-nine-zero-zero

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fast writing

for some reason, author is more preoccupied with formatting the damn

thing than with playing around with the language, maybe because of

the so very grandiose idea that her writing is excellent, what is amiss is

the right kind of marketing and the right kind of formatting in order to

attract middle men, middle woman, lawyers, agents, sellers,

bookbinders, the people that stand between the idea and the final

product, the people who will make it happen, the ones that look at pie

charts and bottom lines, and copyright, infringements, IPOs, whatever

the term might be, but in general, that means, everybody, everybody

is a potential reader or a potential critic, everybody but the form giver

herself (in this case form giver is synonomous with author, words are

small elements to make a larger unit, a text), anyhow, gotta run,

crme brulee time in vcc will be over soon.

oh , and another thing that just happened to author, a talk with a

woman was about to make author take her manuscript out of her purse

and hand it to the woman, here, see, this is what I am up to, not a

good idea, never show work in progress, only the finished product, ah,

tough, to be a writer author whatever. And, now, time 4 crme brulee,

and

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wordcount: three-one-two-seven

seven e-queries

author is sitting in the mac lab, on the second floor of the north

building, it is really cold in here, the air conditioner is totally outta

whack, one needs to wear a polar fleece or something in here, never

ever do your work inside without proper attire, author e-queried

seven or eight, maybe, nine agents already, yep, 4 this very piece. It is

fun to e-query, you should try it once, you just e-mail your book

proposal to different agents, after all, publishers will not accept work

by an unagented author. It is all very complex and confusing, author

types and types and types. Today she was too late for crme brulee,

she had this too fatty, too greasy desert, two cookies with cream in

between, it looked nice, but it was way too fatty. Even the sales lady

commented that the desert looked good, or was it someone else,

author ponders why she fills the pages with all this inconsequential

stuff, shouldnt she write profound stuff, author feels bad, that she

types, while the janitor janitors around, somebody sings, hums, all

these words are so weird, I hate writing writing writing writing.

Especially when it is such bad writing. Wordcount wordcount

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wordcount. Ok, we are @ 3338.

It is chilly in here, all the animators are working on their films, author

misses animating, ah, animating. And

wordcount: three-three-five-nine

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chapter without title

author types, types. Swirlies on the monitor to her right, the monitor to

her left. Once again, the air conditioner, blasting away, making this

place way too chilly. Author ponders if she should complain to security,

after all, it is a waste of energy and it is really, really cold in here.

Woman to the right is busy with animating, zooms in, zooms out.

Author types and types and types.

Wordcount, ah, who cares.

Author is really unhappy with her writing, she should get back to

animating, she is so much better at visual stuff, literary stuff is way too

gooey, like lumpy pea soup, words stall way to much, they are non-

fluent, author types types, against the short pauses in the everblasting

air conditioner. And we type type type. Author peeks jealously at the

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drawings of the animator

and

wordcount: three-five-oh-seven

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once more in the maclab

the woman is sitting once more in the maclab, pondering, ah,

wondering, debating if she should write maclab in one word or in two

words. The woman is the autor, from now on referred to only as

author. author could use I, but, hey, author does not feel like that.

Author has very peculiar tastes in writing, in putting together words,

author was rejected, twice, today. She sent eight e-queries out-

yesterday- and received two form letters, two form-rejections. Maybe

one of them was not a form-letter, the agent put her name in front of

it, both of the letters were very nice, its not you its me, but, hey,

basically, the gist of them was, that she sucks @ writing. Meh, who

cares, keep just soldiering on. The muse might kiss us here, eventually,

in her case the muse should be male. Are muses male or female, is

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there more than one muse, how does that work? Ah, writing, typing,

you know, publishing is a business, like any other. So they say, so they

say. How many words do we have here? Author is pondering that she

once wrote a query trying to convince the editor that there is no

difference between fiction and non-fiction, somehow that didnt fly. But

author really believes that there is no difference, we can discuss that

over a beer. Anyhoo, wordcount marches forward- and thats all that

counts here. Air conditioner started to blow again, forcefully, right into

authors neck.

wordcount: three-seven-six-one

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After Art School # 77 a - 21

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