It’s a lot like writing a book, he said, a sheet a day until the shadows lengthen into graven grimness. I tell him that I seem to have buried my week with filler pages, caught in revisting what has been transcribed, wondering why the dialogue seems so stilted, how the plot drops off. When the hook appears. Where the action begins. A condition: you can’t revise the past. So you go forward and hope the next words come out right.
And it’s been an existential week, full of vague ideas. You smell the cheese behind the fog machine, understanding that a single perspective will only get so far, maybe just an outline. This changing of perspectives is like the swapping of colored spectacles. Several lenses later, you exclaim, this is a streetlamp, that is a brick wall. It is a mountain, it is a bridge. I’m standing in a canoe. I should’ve known. There’s never any certainty.
Certainly, there are no sequels.