a day

nasrin khosrowshahi

fall 2011

The woman in the black and white sweater starts typing, she tries to vanish into the very outmost corner of the computer lab, she tries to lean forward and to avoid the glare from the keyboard, she tries this, that and the other. Her words flow onto the page, they are non-pragmatic, too feminine, not that intelligent not that not that. She is losing her mind, one brain cell at a time a time. She fiddles around in her black purse, the one with the leopard SKIN LINING, THE ONE THAT WAS ON SALE AT H AND M. HER SERIOUS ANN KLEIN GLASsES, THE ONE THAT ARE SUPPOSED TO SAY CLASSIC CLASSIC. the woman is pissed off, a rainy vancouver day is doing her in, she had a bad test in the morning, anyhoo, she types types types. Her days as a writer are numbered, all her manuscripts are rejected, she anyhoo, any how, anyhows. Sends out proposals to agents, in london, Cambridge and new york city, she is used to being rejected rejected. Rejected-dom as m.o.. The publishing industry sucks, stinks, is controlled by the one per cent. Yep, stieglitzy-isms penetrate our occupy somethingish world, shortly before November of 2011 sets in, while ghaddaffi has just been buried, while iran is outraged that a country that throws bombs on Nagasaki opposes peaceful uranium enrichment, while the news is on the news on the news. A baby made it thru the shaking in van, mayor Robertson and Suzanne anton debate occupy Vancouver, there will be re-elections on November 19, November 19. The woman in black and white ponders whether the daily news has anything to do with her writing, she is like a plumber who installs pipes. She arranges and rearranges words, for the masses, the masses. She enjoys the process, dreams of fame and fortune, mr. mitty is still alive still alive. Connotations will not bring you anywhere, try to write legibly, spin beautiful creations that quiver in the wind, for moments moments.

a day

nasrin khosrowshahi

fall 2011

She has 337 words, the kid in white and with glasses next to her writes an essay about health in india, at least that is what his book is about. The woman in black and white ponders if this kind of teaching is good, what kind of jobs are there for writers about health in india. It is nice to have an informed population, it makes for a nice functioning civil society. But you will not get a job writing good essays, you will not make money if you sell your words. Besides, your words have to either oppose or sustain the political climate of the country you live in. The woman in black and white ponders, what if you are ahead by a century, isnt that what all the writers on the planet, all the poets all the artists all the filmmakers all the animators think- I have it right- and everyone else has it wrong. The woman in black and white is not quite sure if that is true, anyhoo, she types and types and types. Her thoughts are not quite thought thru, they are slightly quivering, she will not be able to write op-ed pieces, ever ever ever. She watches too much Seinfeld these days, that is not good not good not good. It is ten o clock coffee time, she will wrap this up, this will be her next great novel-one of many one of many. She will e-mail it to unsuspecting agents, some slushpilereader has to read this read this. They then will venture out and sell her words over champagne and caviar, that is how it is how it is. Ah the glamour of writing, selling words should be different from dealing cocaine but is it is it. The woman in black and white amasses her dreary words, someone sneezes, there are too many people in this computerlab, she types and types and types. The student next to her types something about marriage as financial transaction, the woman in black and white thinks that the curriculum here is way too racist. It has an us versus them mentality, the underlying premise being WE are better than them. Phh, cold war mentalities dont die die. But they are eradicated, one step at a time one step at a time. Powers are rearranged, slowly slowly. A change of the guard, slowly slowly. Housewives will run the world, One word at a time, at a time. Call to arms, or something and something. The woman in

a day

nasrin khosrowshahi

fall 2011

black and white is tired, she is not quite sure what she is writing about, her words are too inconcise, too weird and strange, she tries to rebel, but there is no cause no cause. How can you write when you have no flaming pen, when you are a Spartacus without a pharaoh to dismantleand did Spartacus live under a pharaoh, the woman in black and white is not quite sure sure. And who writes stuff like the woman in black and white, you have to give a name to your protagonist, gina, henry, an Italian name, an English name, a Russian name. a Swahili name, an Icelandic name. everywoman, everywoman. The woman in black and white has enough of writing, she feels like throwing the black keyboard into the wind, make it sail thru the room, she listens to the printer and the mouseclicks at the computer opposite of her, a woman in ochre stands up. Walks to the printer, the woman in black and white types and types and types.923 words, 923, 923. --Once again on the computer, this time in a place near the door, it is still the blackish computerlab, filled to the brim, the author types types types. The author is the same person as the formerly described woman in black and white, somehow it seems better, more poetic to refer to her as THE author, at least in the second 1000 word long chunk. The author sounds more generic, more unisex, the author ponders ponders. Maybe next time she will be called THE TYPIST, maybe that will be the title in the third 1000 word chunk. The author ponders, she can play with literary conventions, but maybe it will all get a tad too confusing. Maybe she should draw a diagram or something, an explanatory note like the notes beside maps or other visual diagrams. Woman in black and white equals THE AUTHOR equals THE TYPIST. Woman in black and white is just too long, maybe an acronym would be good, WIBAW or TWIBAW, short for THE woman in black and white. Maybe DORA would be good, some random name. the author is
3

a day

nasrin khosrowshahi

fall 2011

kinda loosing it, it is difficult to hold a written piece together, she snores, she used to be good at writing, good good good good. Her writing has deteriorated over the years, it is too convoluted, too weird and strange, too intertwined. She feels sick, nauseated, there are too many people here, the place is filled with stickiness, there are way too many persons in here, the ventilation is off, off. So, that is why poets sit in little attics, under the roof, they need fresh air or at least air that they do not share with the entire population of a community college. And besides, it is more romantic, though ROMANTIC will not translate into good writing. Huh, aha. 1234 words, so this will be her little gimmick, a novel staccatoed by random wordcounts, to underscore the battle with the words, or something and something. The self portrait of the writer, the poet who has nothing to say, nothing to describe except for her own inability to fashion and mould the right words, the right ones right ones right ones. The author is hungry, wishes for a fresh breeze against her skin, the motioning thru space, anywhere but here would do, should do. Plots are 4 the birds, they are non-existent non-existent. Stories, narratives, who needs them, needs them. Non-narratives rule, non-stories rock. Seven billion stories on this planet, so many so many so many. Where does that leave literature, art, music, poetry? Do we even need it need it. Amnd the wordcount marches to its own drummer- 1373 it is, it is. A dreary day in a dreary typing room, while people walk by walk by walk by. the occupy movement, still on the news, still on the news. ---------Once again in the neat typing room, she wonders why she uses the attribute NEAT, something must be neat in here, something smells, too perfumy, too overpowering, she feels like boxing her neighbour in the face, why did he have to bathe himself in some cheap perfume, the weather outside is nice, you do not have to spritz yourself and bother people, what has this world come to come to?
4

a day

nasrin khosrowshahi

fall 2011

Ah, dispatches from some typing room, the author types as fast as she can can. Nanomonth is so very near, she has started already, you do not have to start sprinting on November first, what is wrong with a headstart headstart. Her words are better when there is more time, maybe they are not maybe they are not. Maybe you should weigh each and every word, maybe rewriting is good, maybe sprinting towards an endgoal is better better. There are as many theories about effective writing as there are writers, there are are are are. A so very long line near the printer, all these people, in orange, in blue, with bored faces, why does every teacher in this place still want paper, why can you not read it online, do you have to put your red ink on the paper, physically, what bout those trees trees trees. Author ponders, she feels slightly nauseated, she wrote an exam in the morning, something about Jason and Medea, one hour of text analysis, in English one oh one, history of drama, not technically one oh one, outside the sun is shining, words and words and words. The overcollapsing narrative, too fast paced, erratic erratic. The keys that dance in front of her, she did not sleep tonite, not enough, not and not and not. Some more words, some more some more. The perfume stench is still here, nauseating, people talk behind her, two men, one woman, author turns around, actually, it were two women, one in red, one in black and green, the stench of the perfume is too much too much. The roar of the chair, the sound and screech of the printer, for seconds seconds, the typing and typing and typing. The slow steady tedious spellcheck, the wordcount so very very fast. The push of a button, yep, 1784 it is, it is. Not even 2000, the writing goes slow, lingers like gravy that falls as slow as ketchup, author feels hunger, that happens when you describe food, condiments, the like the like. The perfume guy left, but the stench is still here, must have been caused by somebody else, somebody else. People here are more into studying, not much typing is going on, going on, these are learners, observers, factual minded peeps, not overwordy writers writers. But, hey, someone has to write books, might as

a day

nasrin khosrowshahi

fall 2011

well be her, be her. Publishing is dead, long live publishing. Kindles burn out, the smell of a book, ah, delirium, delirious. And she types on types on. On to the next word, onto the next sentence. Typing is good good. There is no dif tween typing and writing, not any more not any more not any more. Gone gone are the days of Kerouac and Capote, these are the days of texting, the like, what will tomorrow bring, who knows who knows who knows. The woman in black and white, she straightens up, types and types and types. Fragmented words, short quivering mutterings, for nanoseconds, only to be substituted by the nest word. Describing writing, this better be good good good. And 1992 words we have, run away from this machine run away run away. runnnn n. --------For some reason, her words got lost, 1000 words or so, that she did not save, all her words, ah, all of her words. She did not save them, she is sitting here, she has her room to herself, a room of ones own, a room of ones own. The telly, some pierse morganish piece, she starts staring at the flowers near the window, the day is ending, she splashes her words down, this time around she will save them, save them. She can once more describe everything Halloween, this is October 31, tomorrow nanomonth is a-starting. Five kinds of chocolate, no more trick or treaters, only the drive to fill the pages, to have some more words and any words will do, should do. Fast ones, strong ones, words that wish for a plot, something dramatic, something unique, but hers are only songs of a poet who is not quite there, whose words are way too reluctant, too quivering, too slow, too, too much of anything. Words that do not fall into place, words that are not good enough, that stall like a mule in bad weather. Not that author knows much about mules, she just spins her yarn and tries to paint with words, effortlessly, disturbedly. You cannot physically

a day

nasrin khosrowshahi

fall 2011

crumple up the paper and throw it into the garbage bin, with a laptop your writing changes, changes. It sings differently, more mellowy, without the drama that is inherent in the scratching of a pen, author has no clue if that is true if that is true. Two more hours till the start of nanomonth, two more two more. and 2283 words are here now, her novel moves forward forward. -------------------