Tumbleweed

It's so quiet in here. I almost don't want to disturb anything. I come to this page and it's as if I can hear footsteps echoing off in the distance. I should add an animated gif of tumbleweed to the banner.

Let's pretend I've been here telling you things all along. That, for instance, 2666 did not win the Best Translated Book Award; Attila Bartis's Tranquility did. That I haven't found a way to put my feelings about reading Vilnius Poker into words, and it's mostly down to the fact that it's shockingly complex and important, and jarring to think of how difficult it must have been to translate. That thinking about cleaning out our closets has made me think of pack rats, which led me to the Wikipedia article on the Collyer brothers, which made me wonder if their ghosts are still in that old brownstone, and if so, do they let the current residents throw anything away?

Let's pretend that I wrote something other than this. Something potentially beautiful about something that happened just the other day. Or, more likely, how learning that this song is 17 years old made me feel incredibly old. And how I then laughed uncontrollably for half an hour about dance music.

Maybe I should have let the tumbleweed go about its business. A friend of mine once said that good dance music is made by filling every possibly space with something. I don't think that necessarily applies to good writing.

No; not at all.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.