Told you so
16 September 2005
...Which I did, I told you I would. Not that the story is finished yet (I must by now have introduced you to Brenchleyís First Law of Everything, which is that Everything Takes Longer), but Iíve written near enough three thousand words today, and barring interruptions or other calamity, I really ought to finish it tomorrow. Thatís Ďfinishí in the sense of Ďgetting the first draft to the end thereof,í of course. While I love this endgame, the final sprint to the line and the sense of achievement after, there is also a great comfort in the certain knowledge that no work is truly finished, itís only ever abandoned. I could go on fiddling forever; these days, I do go on fiddling for as long as Iím allowed. Used not to be so: partly the impatience of youth (he sighed, romantically), wanting always to be throwing this one out into the world and getting on with the next; partly the technological change that has overcome us. Iíve been doing this job so long, I started on typewriters, where rewrites were a very literal and physical pain, because everything had to be typed again, and again, and again. I grew up in a world where change was difficult, time-consuming, costly; now itís cheap and easy. Text has gone from solid to liquid, and thatís not just in a reproductive sense, getting the words down; itís in our heads too, a major change in the relationship between the artist and the work. Thatís fascinating, and I can watch it happening inside my own head.
Anyway, tired now. All worded out. Going to bed, with small loud but thankfully incomprehensible cat. I suppose something must happen inside her head too, but Iíve never figured it out yet.
© Chaz Brenchley 2005
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.