Saturday
“This is good coffee this morning,” I said to Rachel. I’d gone down to the Clair de Lune with my notebook and plans to do some writing.
“The coffee’s always good,” said Rachel.
“I like your confidence,” I said.
“The barista is always right,” she said.
Yesterday, I’d had a particularly productive day. Deadlines will do that. I had to finish up Home & Away and send a draft to Mort, my editor at Phaneron. Arthur agreed to look at the letters. He’d said he wasn’t sure that they would be good for the next issue of the magazine though. Arthur’s concern was that very few people would be interested a collection of letters centered around the 2014 World Cup. “I mean, I loved that World Cup,” Arthur had said, “but I’m not sure that even I would want to read a book about it. Everybody’s focused on Russia now.” “And that’s not just soccer fans,” I said. “True, true,” he said. Then added, “And I don’t think the cross-section of Knausgaard’s readers that are soccer fanatics is so big that there’s a market for a tie-in title by an unknown writer.”
Anyway, I sent the whole batch of letters to Mort yesterday. He’s a quick reader and will let me know if he thinks it’s worth putting them all together. Even a limited clothbound edition would be nice. Christmas gifts maybe.
Last night, I started going through my notes trying to make up my mind about what to work on next. With Home & Away behind me I could get back to working on something else. The temptation is always to start something new. That fresh, blank piece of paper. I could write anything on it. It’s like going into the TARDIS and pulling the lever on the randomizer. You never know where you’ll end up. But what I really needed to do was get back to one of my works-in-progress and finish it up. That would be the responsible thing to do.
Over the Christmas “break” I’d printed out a draft of a novel I’d called The Architect. Alice didn’t like the title. “It’s too stuffy,” she said. “Nobody wants to read about architects.” “Maybe other architects do,” I said. “Besides, the book isn’t about architects.” “Then why are you calling it ‘The Architect’?” she asked.
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“I’ve always had trouble spelling the word architect and I thought the best way to learn was to write a book where I’d have to type the word over and over again.” “Did it work?” she asked. “I think so,” I said.
Deep in my heart, I knew I would have to get back to revising The Architect. Ever since setting it aside for Home & Away I’ve felt guilty for abandoning it. Then I saw that my contemporary (who is in no way my rival) Amélie Nothomb had published another book, right on schedule. This one is called Riquet à la houppe. I have no idea what the novel is about since I haven’t read it, but it might have something to do with Charles Perrault’s literary fairy tale, “Ricky with (of?) the Tuft.” Starting in 1992 she’s published a novel each year (well, most years) and Riquet à la houppe is something like her 28th novel. The only reason I mention this is that I’m both jealous and full of regret. Amélie Nothomb and I are the same age (give or take a year or two). If only I had started publishing a novel each year from the age of 25! What was I doing instead? Soldering tiny copper wires to other tiny copper wires. I got really good at soldering tiny little copper wires. There may have been a time when I was the best tiny copper wire solderer in the world. But no one will ever know. You don’t get a Wikipedia entry for being the world’s best tiny copper wire solderer. Why was I soldering tiny copper wires to other tiny copper wires, you ask? Oh? No, you didn’t? Okay.
Another book by César Aira came out recently too, Ema, The Captive. I haven’t read that one either. The number of books that Cesar Aira has published is ridiculous. We’re not talking Simenon here, but on the back cover of Ema, The Captive it says Cesar Aira “has published at least ninety books.” I like the “at least” in that sentence. It’s like they aren’t really sure how many books he’s published. It’s at least ninety. But we can’t be sure. It might be more. It could be a lot more. There might even be books that César Aira isn’t telling us about. Books that he’s published secretly and refuses to own up to. A fact that is actually quite galling. Who does he think he is? Is he so important that he can go around secretly publishing books just so that he can keep us guessing and in the dark? Is he some sort of literary anarchist who’s attempting to undermine the commodification of literary culture? Is he trying to democratize the means of production through indiscriminate secret publication?
I’m sure that’s what Aira’s publishers really wanted to print on the back of Ema, The Captive, but they settled for the more implicit and subtle criticism contained in that “at least.”
“Are you ready for your refill?” asked Rachel.
I looked into my cup and sure enough it was empty. “My cup runneth under,” I said.
“I’ll see if I can fix that,” she said.
When she returned with that steaming second mug of coffee she asked, “You’ve been sitting there with your notebook open for the last half hour. I’m not criticizing or anything, I’m just curious, about what it is that you writer-types do. Is the sitting and staring at an open, empty notebook page considered writing or do you actually have to do something with the pen too?”
“Did I mention that this coffee was superb?”
