2xl: 2016-01-20

According to Harry Mathews, Stendhal advised writers to compose vingt lignes par jour, genie ou pas (twenty lines a day, genius or not).

It feels like sound advice even though I can’t verify that Stendhal ever wrote or said it.

By “sound advice” I mean advice that I believe I can take in some form.

And by “some form” I mean 20 sentences per day.

Exactly 20 sentences.

Vingt phrases par jour, génie ou pas.

This is a simplification and an experiment.

The simplification: I’ve given up writing except for this.

The experiment: knowing that nothing I write will ever be good enough should make this, whatever it is, easy.

After all, nothing survives.

Or only the nothing-that-is.

Some things my phrases are not and will never be: journal entries, diary entries, prose poems, captain’s logs, essays, rough drafts, final drafts, viruses or ova.

Some things they will be: bits, bytes, pixels, accumulations, assemblages, conglomerations, murmurs, mutterings and murders.

Gabriel García Márquez wrote that “all human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.”

(Which life is this?)

If you’re reading this, I decided to post these experiments to my fallow blog.

(Or should that be barren?)

And I’m sad that you have nothing better to do.

If you’re not reading this:

We’re both finished.

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