reading Calamities, which feels like “finally.” a) reading it thru the day by reading one or 2 essays and then doing something finite in the house like clearing off the dresser top of my folded clothes, pretending that I am moving through the day in the spirit of a book that starts each inquiry, alway in some way about narrative, with ‘I began the day” which is hilarious, like I was just reading a fb post about complaints people have about student fiction, lists of “never”s they want and one is the not-news one about starting a story with waking up/beginning the day (which I do in my novel in order I hope to suggest something about that, that both mines and undermines narrative practice/cliche and its effects on the world). b) thinking about the feeling of reading this and thinking ‘that’s just the way I am right now with MY novel I can’t get to crawl forward to me’ and then about all the things I’m reading for the important prize thing I’m reading for and how many entries are being written with the bald bland sole-seeming purpose of soliciting that feeling from readers and my actual response is that I recognize those feelings only from reading and watching a lot of narratives, and these pieces are reflecting not human experience but the construction of the most-clicked-upon-thumbs-up version of reflections of human experience that puts the generic at the top of the feed– and real reflections of experience are probably more like the ones no one would click upon b/c that shit is private– not shameful, not unpopular, not even simply a small percentage of people or moments in life– but both accessing it in reading and knowing it in yourself is so specific that it is not recognizable in a way that can be proclaimed. (last section of that sentence got lost– not sure if that’s where I want to have gone, but my time is up with this break from reading and now I have to begin another day.)

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