I have been, for just-under-200 pages of my novel so far, embracing, trying to use and incorporate the form of narrative that includes looking things up on the internet in order to do everything from solve a mystery or trigger the expansion of an idea to avoid remembering or escape from imagining.  I am at the point where my relationship with the act of collage feels exhausted or unpleasantly sickening.  But I don’t yet know where it has lead me.  I still do it in spasms.  I feel this compulsion to add a synchronous tidbit.  I am still not sure what anything could be if not a wash of association.  I know that pure is a beautiful fantasy.  I am for writing as fantasy.  Doesn’t peace happen while the fields are still soaked with blood?  Is the end of a novel a matter of peace?

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